


Raison D'être Altéré

by dragonofdispair, Rizobact



Series: Towards Light [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (ex-)Wreckers stick together!, Alien Mythology and Religion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Asexual Character, Autobot/Decepticon Culture Clash, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Relationships - Freeform, Color Theory, Drug Use, Explicit Consent, Fix-It, Food Kink, Gossip, M/M, Miscommunication, No Kissing Robots, No bashing though, Platonic Relationships, Religious/Ritual Drug Use, Safewords, Sitophilia, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Wing was a Jerk, almost, but Riz finally got dragon to read MTMTE so we used the comics we swear, culture clash, dragon takes her early Decepticon headcanons out for walkies, even if Riz cares more about canon “compliance” than I do~♪, for everything, hematolagnia, hence instances of noncompliance with later comics dragon couldn’t read :p, it’s a small ship, like the gossipy old ladies at Bingo night, mechs talk, smallish anyway, so was the rest of the Circle, some of the bad guys die, they totally use their words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-07-07 19:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 295,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15914880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: Ratchet joined the crew of theLost Lightwith a sense of finality, his swan song. Now he finds himself unexpectedly looking at a future. While hardly a tale of starcrossed lovers, a new relationship with Drift and a new lease on life in general sees him struggling to transition. Meanwhile, the fighting between Autobots and Decepticons may not have entirely stopped, but the war is over and theLost Lightfumbles its way to peacetime anyway, almost despite itself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled Ratchet’s Adventures In The _Lost Light’s_ Unhealthy Coping Strategies (And One Or Two That Are Somewhat Healthy)
> 
> Parts of this brought to you by… by someone’s advice to “write drunk and edit sober”. We set out to write a Dratchet fic and had the most fun with Ambulon/First Aid/Whirl. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Also, Red Alert makes everything better, he really does. XD ~~totally not currently drunk~~ ~Dragon 
> 
> SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ~Rizo (it happened, shoosh. don’t judge. Also, this came out waaaaay longer and including so many more things than we expected it to. Hope that’s as much fun for you all as it was for us)
> 
> Beta’d by Skywinder. Many thanks to Menial for French language help with the title.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Vocab Note:** for those unfamiliar, "bunting" is the word for that affectionate head-butting/booshing thing that cats do (Googling "bunting" by itself just gets you baseball, birds, and cloth; add "cat" and you'll get the right results).

.

.

.

“How long have we been getting drinks like this?”

“Pretty much since the ship launched.”

Right. “And in all that time, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get anything stronger than energon tea,” Ratchet snorted. Okay, he was probably a bit tipsy, but he was here celebrating! New hands, new lease on life, new… other similar life affirming things. “Does specialism frown on highgrade or something?”

“Nope,” Drift answered, popping the “P” sound obnoxiously. “That’s a personal choice. And it’s spec- _tra_ -lism,” he added with a dramatic roll of his optics, “which I know you know full well.”

“I don’t think there’s a single spark on board that doesn’t know it, with the way you bring it up all the time,” Ratchet said with hardly any of his usual snark. He was feeling too good for once. “But that’s why I wondered if there was a religious restriction against highgrade you were observing.”

“Some of the more extreme sects,” Drift said in an overly patient tone that told Ratchet he knew _just_ how much the answer would get on his nerves, “do have restrictions on all sorts of indulgences of the frame.” He paused, then with a smirk continued, “Fortunately, I’m not a member of one of them.”

“You might as well be as far as Swerve is concerned.” Though the minibot certainly wasn’t hurting for customers tonight. The other booths and tables around the fledgling bar were all occupied with happily drinking and chatting mechs, including the recently recovered Pipes. And Drift _did_ have that weak, watered down excuse for a drink in front of him. “Personal choice though, huh?”

“That hard to believe?” Drift teased back. “I _do_ make decisions that aren’t dictated by religion.” He tapped the table between them, which just made Ratchet stare in confusion. Drift huffed a laugh. “Like hanging out with you.”

Ratchet took a swig of his drink to cover his blunder. “Figured you were doing that to try to convert me.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

He did. Drift was just… convenient to hang out with. They were both officers, so they ended up spending a lot of time together already, and Drift didn’t annoy him like Rodimus did. And Ratchet didn’t think Ultra Magnus knew what “off duty” meant, so when it came to after meeting drinks, it was just easier to tag along with Drift than seek out someone else — or admit how much of a loser he was by drinking alone. Over time, Ratchet had found Drift to be a really good drinking companion, despite his lack of actual drinking. He listened well while they bantered and gossiped about the latest happenings (Drift, it turned out, _loved_ to gossip), and he knew how to be a quiet, steadying presence when needed. And unlike _some_ friends Ratchet had had, he _always_ made sure the medic got home safe, no matter how drunk he’d gotten. But the one thing Drift hadn’t done — not seriously, anyway — was try to convert him.

Drive him to distraction on occasion by bringing up his own spirituality all the time, certainly, but never convert him.

“So what’s the personal reasoning behind the lack of interest in highgrade?” Ratchet asked, completely shameless about knocking the stuff back himself. He was going to need another cube soon. “…Pharma never touched the stuff either. Said it interfered with his skills.” Yup. Definitely needed another cube if he was going to talk about Pharma right now. But the association was impossible not to make; the mech was — had been — one of the staunchest teetotalers Ratchet had ever known.

“To be mysterious,” Drift teased. Even as almost-drunk as Ratchet was, he could see how the swordsmech’s armor shifted uncomfortably. Ah-ha! Drift was trying to downplay it, but there was definitely something here. “It’s part of my mysterious allure… Is it working?”

“Oh, you’re mysterious, all right. Mysterious, and distracting.” And a distraction was exactly what Ratchet needed right now. He would much rather focus on the mystery that was Drift than dwell on himself or what had just happened at Delphi. “But I’m still curious. Is it because you don’t want to be caught unprepared for a fight?” he guessed, looking to the swords at Drift’s sides. He thought Drift would be a formidable opponent, even drunk, but he could understand if Drift didn’t want to be caught intoxicated.

“Good guess. Logical. But wrong.”

“Don’t like the taste?” Ratchet guessed again.

“Nope,” he popped that “P” sound again. “Highgrade tastes fine. Fuel in general tastes fine. I’m pretty sure my taste sensors shut down centuries ago.” Drift paused, leaning over the table so he could talk quietly, giving them the illusion of privacy. The action drew several optics, and Drift looked at them until they looked away. He bunted Ratchet affectionately, which distracted the eavesdroppers enough that his low-voiced (but NOT whispered), “I’m surprised you haven’t realized,” passed completely unremarked by the gossips. “After what I admitted down there.”

So much for distractions. Ratchet tossed back the rest of his cube and signalled Swerve for another. “I’d say that refusing any kind of fuel, even highgrade, after the poverty of the Dead End sounds out of character for most mechs. Scarcity and starvation leave their marks,” he said, pausing until Swerve put his drink down on the table and left them alone again before continuing, “but so do boosters. That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Absently, Drift rubbed at his left arm, where the fuel lines and neural circuitry could both be accessed by someone determined enough to circumvent their own armor and inject things. Not all the boosters available in the Dead End had been formatted to fit in a mech’s ports. “Don’t get me wrong, if there wasn’t any other fuel around, I’d drink the highgrade and be grateful, but as long as I’m not scrounging for power, I’ll pass.”

Ratchet sighed, blue fingers curling around his cube. Paint. He should paint them. “It’s not the same kind of high, of course,” he said, though the buzz he had going blurred the medical details beyond the edge of instant recall. “Still, it’s an admirable thing to refrain from, if you’re worried about it opening a door you’ve kept wedged shut.”

“Thank you. Primus helps where willpower fails.” Drift grinned. “I’m sure He appreciates your thanks as well.”

“The frag he does,” Ratchet laughed, then, because he was still feeling good enough to laugh for once, laughed harder. It was a good feeling, and one he’d had far too little acquaintance with recently. “Leave Primus out of it and just enjoy your tea. If it feels as good for you to drink that as it does for me to drink this,” he held up his cube in toast, “then that’s a perfectly valid reason to indulge in all the tea you want.”

“I will.” Pointedly, Drift took a sip. He eyed Ratchet’s hands, optics zeroing in on the spots on Pharma’s paint where Ratchet and First Aid had left tool marks while attaching them. “Would you like some help with those? I’m not as steady at painting as Rung, perhaps, but I won’t nag you to get more rest while I’m doing it.”

“Now that’s a compelling offer.” Rung would probably drag out the whole process to get in an impromptu session out of the task before coercing a promise to recharge out of him, and Ratchet wasn’t interested in that at all. He didn’t want to dissect his new-found sense of vitality, he just wanted to enjoy it! “I’m sure you’ll do fine. You haven’t had anything that would make _your_ hands unsteady!”

“I can get some paint in your color — medic red, right? — from the medbay and do it here,” Drift offered in that low-enough-to-be-private-but-not-whispered voice. Daringly (because Drift almost _never_ initiated affection; he was being touchy this evening), he reached out and ran his fingers along Ratchet’s. The medic shuddered. While medics’ hands being more sensitive than others was a myth, Ratchet had been acclimatized to his own, degrading, circuits, and Drift’s touch felt _different_ on the new ones. “Or I can get you tucked into your own bed first.”

“I don’t need to be tucked into bed. I thought you weren’t going to nag me about rest?” But vague, not fully formed ideas had sprung up at Drift’s touch, and were enough to prompt Ratchet to suggest, “Let’s take this somewhere less crowded anyway.”

“Sure.” Drift smiled. “And in the interest of not nagging you, I won’t offer to help you walk until after you fall over.”

“Well, won’t you be disappointed when I don’t then?” But the room did swim a bit unfairly as Ratchet got to his feet. He paused to catch his balance, and to finish his drink. Then, leaving the empty cube behind, he let go of the table and took one deliberate step toward the door. Then another. “There. See? I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own.”

“Sure Ratchet.” Drift stood much more smoothly, though Ratchet wasn’t sure how he was managing to walk at a five degree angle without incurring the general mockery of the rest of the room. He left a tip on the table for Swerve and followed. “Lead the way.”

By the time they reached the hallway, Ratchet was ready to thank… certainly not _Primus,_ but maybe Rodimus for the walls of the ship being there to lean against. A hand against the solid surface did a great deal to help orient him, and provided unopinionated support whenever he needed to stop for a moment.

“I’m still standing,” he said at one point when he caught Drift looking at him.

“So you are.” He was definitely laughing, even if Ratchet couldn’t hear it.

The medbay doors opened obligingly when they arrived. “You know where the paint is?” he asked Drift, debating whether or not it was worth sitting down for a klik. There wasn’t a lot of activity at the moment, but it still wasn’t private, and those nebulous thoughts from earlier were hinting that privacy might be nice.

“Yeah. You get yourself settled somewhere, I’ll get it.” Fragger was still laughing.

“My quarters aren’t that far.” Were, in fact, just adjacent to the medbay. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Don’t fall over,” Drift sang back, wandering off to retrieve the paint.

“Don’t grab the wrong one.” Red being one of the most popular colors, as a primary or accent, on the ship, they had several different shades in stock. Not waiting around for a rebuttal, Ratchet started making his way the remaining few steps to his quarters.

He was still in the hallway, leaning on the wall when Drift caught up to him. “Feels like the floor’s moving backwards,” he complained. The door wasn’t getting any closer!

“But you haven’t fallen,” Drift said, this time with an actual laugh, not just a silent one.

“No, I haven’t.” And he wasn’t going to now! Bolstered by a refusal to give Drift the satisfaction, Ratchet forced his feet to carry him the rest of the way to his quarters — where he promptly collapsed _beside_ his chair instead of into it. Drift put the paint down on the floor and lifted Ratchet up effortlessly (show off!) into it.

He looked around with interest, setting his swords carefully aside, by the door. “I don’t see another chair.”

Given how fatalistic Ratchet had been since the ship’s launch, he hadn’t exactly planned on having anyone over when he’d moved in. “There isn’t one,” he admitted, realizing there was really only one other place for Drift to sit. “Just sit on the edge of the berth.”

“Alright.” Scooping up the paint, Drift did just that. He gave Ratchet a very Rodimus-like smirk, and saluted him with the paintbrush he’d balanced on one helm finial. It was an unexpectedly adorable fashion statement.

There was a small, wheeled tray table beside Ratchet currently covered with an assortment of datapads. The medic carefully, deliberately, transferred them to his already overburdened desk, then pulled the table around so they would have a solid surface to work on. “Take your pick,” he said, laying both hands out between them. “Where do you want to start?”

Silently, Drift took Ratchet’s right hand in his own, picking up the paintbrush with his left. Since the _Lost Light_ had taken off, Drift hadn’t shown himself to favor either hand. Ambidextrous. Most of those who had survived the war and didn’t commonly use integrated weaponry were, really. It was a survival trait to be able to fight with whatever hand a gun (or sword) happened to be in, instead of taking the nanokliks to get it into the right hand. But most mechs had started right-dominant. Ratchet had thought Drift had too. He _acted_ right dominant; when wielding only one sword he held it in his right hand. Even when he had both drawn, it looked like he led with his right.

Not that Ratchet spent a lot of time watching Drift. He admitted there were (lots of) gaps in his observations. The tiny action of choosing which hand to paint first hinted he might have been left-dominant before the war though; a right-dominant mech would be holding the paintbrush in his right.

Blue fingers twitched reflexively at the first wet touch of red paint, then stilled so Drift could work. It was something of a relief to see the new color overtake the old and, drunk as he was, Ratchet wasn’t able to keep those feelings from his field as well as he usually would have.

“I like them better red too,” Drift said softly. “Blue just looks wrong on you. It throws your aura off.”

“Does it now.” It wasn’t really a question, since Ratchet didn’t really want a detailed breakdown of his “aura” just now… or at any other time, for that matter. Still, he appreciated the sentiment. “It’s interesting what we get used to, isn’t it? What we think of when we think of ourselves, I mean. After so many vorns and so many rebuilds, I’m more attached to my colors than my shape.”

“I’m rather attached to your colors too,” Drift teased lightly.

“Part of it’s the job, of course. Medics need to be identifiable, and that means red.” Not exclusively red, obviously; Pharma’s hands were — had been — blue, and Ratchet himself had a fair amount of white on his frame. A certain degree of red though, this particular shade of red, was definitely tied to a particular function in the minds of most mechs, including Ratchet’s. He gave Drift a slow, curious look, lingering on the different aspects of his paint. “What about you? Was there ever a color you were really attached to?”

“I try not to get attached to my colors,” Drift said airily. There was a flicker of discomfort in his field that warned Ratchet not to pursue that thread. “It’s true that medic red is universal though. Even the Decepticons kept it on hand for theirs. Not as much white,” he drew the end of the paintbrush along one of the seams running the inside of Ratchet’s forearm, making him shiver, “which is a shame.”

“White is a good color,” Ratchet agreed. “I’m rather fond of it on me, and it looks very nice on you.”

Drift preened, imitating Rodimus for a moment. The obnoxious pose didn’t detract from the attractive picture he made, sitting there all shiny and smiling.

Ratchet wasn’t doing a very good job keeping his growing interest from his field, either.

“Done,” Drift announced, and Ratchet realized he had been staring long enough to be considered rude. “Good. It should set in a klik. And while we’re waiting,” Drift smiled, and Ratchet really hoped he wasn’t misreading the seductive edge to it. “It feels like you have something you want to ask me.”

“I… have lots of things I could ask you,” Ratchet hedged, trying to decide whether he really wanted to ask the question that had been slowly coming together in his processor all night. “Not all of them are very useful questions.”

“Well we’re not on duty; not everything needs to be useful.” Ratchet felt the end of the paintbrush shaft stroke his wrist again. Drying fingers twitched, and he wanted the paint to hurry up and set so he could touch back.

“If it’s not inappropriate to ask then,” he said, shoving his reservations aside to be dealt with alongside his regrets when the hangover hit, “would you stay for a while? Here, that is. With me.”

Drift smiled. “Not inappropriate at all. Sure.”

“I don’t mean to talk,” Ratchet clarified, since they’d stayed up late talking together before. “I’m a little more interested right now in seeing if I can find all the different colors on your frame.”

After a brief test that the paint had cured (medic red tended to cure fast, because medics had to scrub off so many times sometimes the paint came with it), Drift picked up Ratchet’s hand, and bunted it. The gentle, casual touch was somehow very intimate, and Ratchet reached up with his other hand to trace the long, pointed finial along the side of Drift’s helm. The metal was smooth and warm, completely recovered from the deadly strain of engineered rust that so nearly killed them both. Alive.

Drift pushed the wheeled table out from between them; anyone else would have sent it careening across the room, but even in that, Drift was deliberate and controlled. It rolled a short ways and stopped before hitting a wall. He tugged Ratchet’s hand, pulling him forward to join him on the berth. The room itself careened around him, and Ratchet found himself looking up into a smirking pair of blue optics. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself.” Ratchet blinked, waiting for his gyros to catch up with what had happened. “We seem to be on my berth.”

“We wouldn’t fit on your chair,” Drift breathed. “Anything I should avoid doing with you?”

“Just changing your mind.” There was a delightful sense of lightheadedness about the whole thing, and Ratchet grounded himself in touching Drift, stroking over red and white plating so like and yet completely different from his own. “You’re alright with this?”

“Just fine,” Drift murmured, leaning in to nibble at Ratchet’s neck cables. It was a very odd sensation. Petting he’d expected, and eventually maybe getting their cords involved, but _nibbling?_ “I just don’t want to freak you out.”

“You’re not going to freak me out. Surprise me a little, maybe, but not freak me out.” After as long as he’d been functioning, there was very little Ratchet hadn’t heard of doing — or wound up helping mechs deal with the aftermath of doing improperly — in the berth. “I’ll ask you to try something else if things aren’t working if you’ll do the same.”

“Deal.” Drift very carefully _scraaaaped_ his teeth along the edge of Ratchet’s collar faring, while his hands teased at his shoulders, inching towards the wrist where his interfacing cords were coiled. _“I_ want to see what it takes to make your sirens go off.”

“I’ve got better control than _that,”_ Ratchet chuckled, though the idea was an enticing one. It had been a long time since anyone had blown his circuits that good — a long time since anyone had blown his circuits, period — and if Drift was up to the challenge, he wasn’t going to turn him down.

“Put your hands over your head, please,” Drift purred.

“Won’t that make it a little hard for me to touch you?” But Ratchet was already complying, tracing his way up every inch of Drift’s frame he could reach in the process of drawing his hands up over his head. Actually rotating his shoulders was a little bit awkward with Drift’s weight on top of him, but Drift lifted himself up to make it easier and he managed, settling back against him and the berth with a few soft creaks.

“But it lets me see more of you,” Drift said. He ran his own hands down Ratchet’s frame, admiring the smooth metal, then scooted down to settle on his knees between Ratchet’s legs. Ratchet wondered what he was doing all the way down there, but Drift answered the unasked question by gently stroking the tread of one of the wheels in his ankles. “You’re beautiful. I’ve always liked looking at you.”

Beautiful? “I’m functional,” Ratchet countered, less uncomfortable with the compliment than bemused by it. “If red and white and boxy is your type, I suppose I’m a good fit. You’re a bit more of a traditional looker than I am, and I have to say — I like what I see too.”

“Tires not a touchy spot?” Drift asked after getting only a minimal reaction to petting the rubber. “Who determines things like ‘traditional’ beauty, when all of us are so different?” he mused as he probed around the tire looking for a way to get at the undoubtedly more sensitive axel and circuits beneath. But Ratchet’s frame was solid and didn’t leave a lot of weak points exposed. Drift moved on to stroking and exploring Ratchet’s thighs. The armor there was just as solid, but none of it was exposed in his alt mode and so was less used to being touched. “Yes, that means I like red and white and boxy.”

“Huh. Guess I’ve got some new competition then,” Ratchet said with a sharp huff through his vents when Drift’s fingers pressed just right along a transformation seam. “Ambulon and First Aid fit that description too.” It was an interesting question though: what did determine “traditional” beauty? “I’ve heard some mechs argue that beauty is the best match between form and function.”

“Functionalist slag,” Drift scoffed, softly enough he didn’t disrupt the mood. He scooted back, then leaned down to try that nibbling thing on the sensitive spots he’d found. It didn’t work at first, but—

“Careful!” Ratchet gasped as his leg jerked, then trembled. “Kicking you isn’t what I want to be doing right now.”

“You’re fine,” Drift breathed, the wash from his fans flowing over the seams he was playing with. “I won’t let you kick me.”

This time when he nipped again Ratchet wasn’t able to jerk as much; Drift held him firmly in place, subject to his touch. “I suppose traditionally good looks comes down to what a majority of mechs are into. There was a time when everyone in my unit was hot for seekers, and anyone who had kibble that even vaguely resembled a flier’s had a real easy time finding berth partners.”

“Don’t care,” Drift muttered, moving up just a bit to nibble on a new set of seams. Ratchet’s pelvic armor was too thick to be sensitive, but there was a circular bit of armor on his abdominal plating that seemed to interest him.

“Right now I — ah! — I’m trying to remember why I care either,” Ratchet stuttered along with his fans. Drift was being _very_ thorough about searching out every little hidden sweet spot, and having that attention so laser-focused on him was as heady as the actual physical sensations themselves. He had to fight not to arch up into that touch, chasing after more of it.

Drift chuckled. “You’re not going to hurt me. You can squirm.” He laughed again, the vibration traveling from where Ratchet’s legs had wrapped around his frame, up over his pelvic and abdominal armor. His mouth was replaced by his hands on that circular piece, fingers working their way into the spaces around the edge, while Drift worked his way up. “I’d like it if you squirmed.”

Ratchet found it was much too hard not to oblige him, so squirm he did. Systems already buzzed from the highgrade were starting to build up charge from the physical stimulation, and the slowly increasing electrical heat felt wonderful. “Didn’t… didn’t realize I was sensitive there,” he gasped, firmly ignoring the implications of that. His last rebuild had been a long time ago. “But it’s not going to set off any sirens.”

“I’m not done.” But Drift didn’t seem in a hurry to move on either, taking his time to stroke and tweak and fondle all the fiddly bits he could find.

He found a lot of them.

He found a _lot_ a lot of them.

By the time Drift was back up at his neck, toying with the exposed circuitry of his shoulder joints where his arms were still raised (and shaking, hands grasping in vain at the smooth surface of the berth), Ratchet was pretty sure he was starting to throw the odd visible spark. “Driiiiiift,” he groaned, much more appreciative this time of those teeth on his collar faring. “Drift!”

“Hmmm?”

Drift eeled around Ratchet to resettled next to him, arms and legs wrapped around him, still stroking, but the new position wasn’t to facilitate using his hands; instead, Drift licked up the edge of one chevron. The temperature difference it caused was especially noticeable on the thin, delicate metal, and Ratchet hissed with pleasure.

He wasn’t used to his partners doing so much with their mouths (those that even had one), but he could get used to this.

“Good spot?” Drift asked with a wash of his fans.

“Good spot,” Ratchet agreed, rather breathlessly. If they hadn’t been so close he doubted Drift would have been able to hear him over his increasingly noisy engine.

Shifting again, Drift maneuvered so he could reach more of his chevron, nibbling, licking, and petting. He’d _also_ maneuvered to keep holding Ratchet down, preventing him from squirming away or bucking into him by accident. The result was an almost freeing sense of restraint, and Ratchet stopped trying to suppress his reactions anymore, giving himself over to whatever Drift decided to do next.

With Drift’s weight back on his chest as he worked over his chevron, Ratchet barely noticed him pulling one of his hands forward. He switched to licking his way along Ratchet’s arm, working his way to the new wrist connections—

“Ahkh!” Ratchet’s startled shout broke up into static. Drift hadn’t even gone for the wrist with his cords, but the brand new wires and welds where Pha— his hands had been attached were still finishing their integration process. Everything Drift did was magnified by his sensornet as it prioritized signals from those regions, flooding his processor with the delightful feedback. Ratchet could do little more than writhe as Drift had his way with him.

He got a moment to catch up with his vent-cycles and process when Drift guided that hand down to cup his aft, murmuring sexy little encouragements as he did so. Ratchet latched on. Finally, he had his hands — er, one hand — on Drift’s plating!

His hand wasn’t responding very well to his commands, though. He clutched, as Drift had encouraged him to, but he couldn’t do more than think about starting his own explorations before Drift turned his attention to his other hand and wrist.

The panel covering his cords had already slid open, letting a few of them unspool eagerly to twitch randomly in the air.

“Quite ardent, aren’t they?” Drift murmured, playing with them with his fingers.

There was no way Ratchet could articulate a response. The exposed circuits twisted in Drift’s hand, desperately seeking out a connection. Without anything to plug into, there was nowhere for all the sensory data to go, no circuit to complete, and it all just piled up on itself in Ratchet’s processor, making each subsequent packet he processed that much more intense.

_Lick!_

That did it. That last little addition tipped the scales, and the result was an overload that wiped everything but pleasure from Ratchet’s processor. Everything cascaded together, the heat of Drift against him, the whirring of his fans, the air moving over them in the wake of his vents, and the incredible feeling of that mouth on his cables.

If his sirens went off, Ratchet didn’t hear them; the overload took his hearing and vision with it, and shortly after that, his consciousness as well.

.

.

.

It was still somewhat of a novelty to wake up, not to the blaring of an internal alarm or an external emergency claxon, but to his systems naturally rebooting themselves. Ratchet let awareness filter in in bits and pieces, enjoying what he recognized as the aftermath of a very, _very,_ pleasant overload.

Much better than waking up with a hangover.

In fact, he felt really good. The overload had burned up the extra charge from the drinks, and his connection to the ship’s power grid — which he didn’t remember plugging himself into — had kept him at 100%. As his sensors came back online fully, Ratchet registered a few more differences from his usual wake up routine: there was a strange, subtle scent in the air, lingering in the room and on his plating… and there was someone in his arms.

Ratchet smiled, awake enough now to settle more deliberately around Drift. “Did you get your sirens?”

Drift had woken the same instant Ratchet had, combat-honed reflexes bringing him up as the mech near him stirred. He had relaxed just as quickly though, in a show of trust Ratchet would ponder later. “Not yet,” Drift answered drowsily. “I’ll try again later. I hope you don’t mind I stayed.”

“Not at all.” This was nice. Ratchet tightened his arms in a brief hug, pleased to note that he wasn’t suddenly having any regrets or crises of conscience now that his processor wasn’t impaired. Not even the usual _I-wish-I’d-stopped-two-drinks-sooner_ regret. “I’m glad you did. And you’re welcome to try again — when we’re both not so sleepy.”

“So I guess this is a _relationship_ now?” Drift asked with an audible smirk.

“This is exactly what it already was. Just with a little bit… more, now.” Ratchet looked down at Drift, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression. “Is that why you decided to burn incense in here while I was out?”

“I just thought it’d smell nicer than stale ozone,” Drift said blithely.

The fact that he _hadn’t_ turned it into an excuse to needle Ratchet about religion told him it was important. Ratchet thought about it seriously for a moment, then admitted, honestly, “It does.”

“Did you want to talk right now?” As soon as Ratchet mentally finished the question as _or can we go back to sleep?_ Drift surprised him. “Before Rodimus gets bored or something happens in the medbay?”

Ratchet huffed a short laugh. “Either one would be disruptive, yes. But unless there’s something you’re feeling a need to get off your spark right now, I’m not in a hurry to dissect this. I enjoyed what we just did, and I’d enjoy doing it again. Which, unless I’m mistaken, is something you’re interested in as well.” That about covered the important things, as far as Ratchet was concerned. “I’m comfortable figuring out the details as we go, like we have been.”

“No, that’s pretty much what I wanted to say too,” Drift said. “This was good, and I wouldn’t mind a repeat. This,” he snuggled deeper into Ratchet’s arms. “This is nice.”

“Yes. Yes it is.” Nicer than a lot of things had been in Ratchet’s life for some time, and he was going to savor it for as long it lasted. “Let’s stay here until they make us get up.”

“Sounds good.” Drift, well, drifted back off.

The next time Ratchet woke, it was to Drift stirring— no, deliberately shaking him, awake.

“Mmmph?”

“Rodimus is calling.” Drift pulled the cord trailing from his wrist out of the recharge jack on the berth and coiled it back under his armor. “Usually he’d wait a little longer, but apparently Ultra Magnus… Nevermind. You don’t want to know what happened. I just didn’t want to sneak off before you woke up.”

“Ah.” No, he didn’t want to know what happened, but it was very considerate of Drift to let him know he was leaving. “Thank you. Good luck babysitting.”

“Thanks.” Drift bunted him softly, then finished climbing out of the berth. He stroked Ratchet’s shoulder affectionately one last time before making his escape, and Ratchet saw the moment when he went from moving quietly and carefully to his usual bounce as the door closed behind him.

Ratchet wondered what First Aid and Ambulon would think if they happened to see him on his way back to the bridge. They hadn’t exactly been discreet leaving Swerve’s together, but it also wasn’t the first time Drift had helped Ratchet (or anyone else on the ship for that matter) back to their quarters. That said, it _was_ the first time, that Ratchet knew of anyway, that Drift had stayed overnight with anyone.

Oh well. He’d find out later, he supposed. Once First Aid had had a chance to add his own two-shanix to the rumor mill. For now, he still had a bit of time before he had to get up, barring any emergencies, and he was going to make the most of it.

The third time he woke up, it was to his regular alarm. Time to relieve First Aid and start his shift.

The medbay was empty when Ratchet arrived. First Aid, the only other mech in the room, looked up from where he was cheerily cleaning tools. “Hey!” he greeted. “Recharge well?”

“I did, as a matter of fact.” For once Ratchet truly _felt_ recharged, not just awake. It was a welcome change, though he had no intention of going about as upbeat as First Aid. That would hit the rumor mill even faster than who his company had been, and he’d wind up with a medbay full of gawkers and not be able to get any work done! “So there’d better not be any backhanded attempts from anyone to get me to ‘take it easy’ today.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Fragger didn’t have a mouth to smile with, but Ratchet could hear it in his voice. “Permission to be relieved?”

“Any pass-ons?” Ratchet could see there was nothing critical, but a quick run-down of any walk-ins and status updates for ongoing treatments was important at the start of a shift.

“There were a couple of sick tanks from an off batch of energon at Swerve’s. Ultra Magnus wants a report, but I told him that if he wanted to look at medical files, he would have to wait until he could talk to you.”

“He doesn’t need to see medical files over something like that,” Ratchet huffed. “There’s being thorough and then there’s being invasive, and Ultra Magnus likes to toe that line a little too close for my taste.” Not that it was ever malicious, but still. “In any case, refusing him was the right course of action.”

“Okay, good. Besides that, someone kinda tall and purple… Cyclonus?” First Aid hesitated over the name and Ratchet nodded to indicate he’d gotten it right. “He came in with a collection of deep scratches. It looked like he’d been fighting, but no one else came in.”

“You’ll probably find Whirl nursing a matching set then, if you run into him.” The two swore they weren’t actively trying to dismantle each other, though Ratchet had his doubts. The brutal matches they called “sparring” always resulted in significant minor — and occasionally major — injuries to both of them. Cyclonus would come in and stoically get patched up; Whirl never bothered. “Nothing worse than the scratches this time?”

“Some of them were really deep,” First Aid hedged worriedly. “Maybe I should take a kit and go find Whirl?”

“Just don’t take it personally if he brushes you off,” Ratchet said, not wanting him to get his hopes up. Whirl had walked out on repairs often enough that Ratchet certainly wasn’t going to bother chasing him down, but if First Aid wanted to… “Remember, he’s allowed to refuse treatment — no matter how stupid a decision that is on his part.”

“Right. Okay.” First Aid backed up to use one of the medberths to make sure the kit in his subspace had everything he needed. It should; all medics were to carry at least the bare minimum for battlefield repairs on them at all times, and preferably more than that, but Ratchet approved of him taking the time to check. “I’ll take myself off duty then. He might respond better to a… friend?” First Aid didn’t sound entirely sure, and Ratchet didn’t blame him; this _was_ Whirl they were talking about, and in Ratchet’s experience, Whirl responded best to threats of violence or the promise thereof.

“It’s your time. Do what you want with it,” Ratchet said. He wasn’t particularly hopeful, but it was harmless enough to let First Aid give it a try. Who knew? Maybe he’d even succeed, like he had with Fortress Maximus. “Make sure you get some actual rest in somewhere, alright?”

“Yes, sir.” First Aid closed up his kit and subspaced it. “Permission to leave?”

“Granted.” Ratchet caught himself smiling as First Aid set off on his self-appointed mission. He still had room to grow, but his spark was in the right place, and he definitely had the energy and determination to help patients a good CMO should have. Ratchet was no longer facing the imminent loss of ability to perform his function with new hands on his wrists, but he’d brought First Aid on with the intent of training him as his successor, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back on that.

Of course First Aid (in his cheeriness) had left the medbay spotless, so Ratchet had no reason to do anything but put his feet up and bury his nose in a recent medical journal. It was a bit more… gruesome than he usually cared to read, but the Decepticons had come up with a _few_ worthwhile medical innovations. Most of them weren’t things Ratchet wanted to use on actual patients except as a true last resort, but they were still worth reading about. This particular journal also had descriptions of a few novel technopathogens the NAILS had encountered, which, given the Lost Light’s mission statement to take in strays, was useful information to have.

Alas, his peaceful reading was destined to be interrupted. Ratchet only wished it had come in the form of a patient. Ultra Magnus did _not_ slam doors; some mechs, like Ratchet himself, managed to slam them despite them being automatic, but not Ultra Magnus. For him they closed precisely as they were programmed to, three nanokliks after he’d passed through, and he was always the requisite two steps away from the doors when they did so. Nonetheless, Ratchet could see he was peeved about something.

The imp of the perverse had him deliberately taking a moment, ostensibly to finish his page, before setting his datapad down and standing to address Ultra Magnus. “Can I help you with something? You don’t appear to be injured.”

“There were three cases of energon poisoning during the last shift,” Ultra Magnus said without preamble. “I need the related medical records for my investigation.”

More like he “needed” them for his own personal crusade to get Swerve’s shut down. Three cases of upset tanks since the bar had opened wasn’t statistically notable compared to the illness caused by the various illegal stills on all the other bases Ratchet had served at. If Swerve’s weren’t open, that’s exactly what they’d have here: illegal, improvised, stills attempting to manufacture engex from used engine grease. Shutting down Swerve’s wouldn’t stop the crew from getting their highgrade, even if Ultra Magnus tried to shut down and punish the perpetrators of such operations, and there would be even more upset tanks as a result.

The fact that Ratchet liked frequenting Swerve’s had, compared to that public health concern, nothing to do with him standing up for the establishment.

“Three cases of energon poisoning, huh? And has your investigation thus far satisfactorily shown that all three cases originated at Swerve’s establishment?”

“Of course.” Ultra Magnus seemed somewhat affronted by the suggestion his investigation was less than thorough. “There is no other source of consumable energon on this ship. All three afflicted crewmembers were patrons at Swerve’s. Exactly one breem, four kilks and seven nanokliks after consuming his first beverage the first came down with symptoms. Within one breem of that, all three had reported for treatment. I even traced which barrel their drinks were poured from — which _only_ their drinks were poured from.”

“Then what do you need the medical records for?” Ratchet wished he’d given them more than a cursory glance earlier so he’d have a better idea how big a mess this was likely to turn into, but even if the charts were entirely harmless, he wasn’t going to give them up without a fight. “No one’s pressing any charges, are they?”

“That is what I need to determine,” Ultra Magnus rumbled. “Creating an accidental hazard is punishable by fines and potentially by shutting down the establishment in question.” He sounded far too pleased by that possibility. “If my investigation turns up malicious intent, that carries an even more severe punishment.”

“A single batch of bad energon hardly constitutes the kind of crisis that requires that kind of response.” Not when compared to the alternative, which of course Ultra Magnus wasn’t considering. “There’s no reason for this to go any further than a note on file for establishing a pattern if it happens again.”

“That is at the discretion of the investigating officer,” Magnus said firmly.

“Bring me a warrant then,” Ratchet countered, hoping he didn’t already have one. But no; he would have led with it if he had. Self issued warrants were an abuse of power Ultra Magnus wouldn’t condone, and it was unlikely Rodimus would have issued one after being woken up early. “If you want me to release private information to a public investigation, you’re going to have to get an order for it.”

Ultra Magnus just stared at him expressionlessly. “Very well.” Abruptly, he turned on his heel and left, probably to go back to harassing their illustrious captain to issue him a warrant.

Rodimus wouldn’t. Probably wouldn’t. Unless Magnus annoyed him enough to get him to do it just to get his second in command to go away for a while.

Now was probably a good time to look at those charts.

It was some time later, long after he had finished reading up on the poisoning cases — not very exciting at all, and definitely not worth the fuss Ultra Magnus was making over them — and had moved on to repairing a sputtering microwelder when Drift reappeared. He slunk into the medbay with a sheepish look on his faceplate and Ratchet could guess _exactly_ why he was there.

“Hi,” he waved. His optics flicked around the room. Right now, all the berths were still empty; none of the minor complaints that had come through had required staying in the medbay for more than a breem. “It… looks like you’re busy? If you are, I can come back later?” He sounded hopeful.

“I’m too busy to look up any charts,” Ratchet said sharply, then relented. “I do have time to talk, however.”

“Oh good.” Drift relaxed. “This has been the worst.”

“Stuck between Rodimus and Ultra Magnus isn’t a position I’d want to be in,” Ratchet agreed. “I hope they aren’t foolish enough to think you’re going to be able to change my mind.”

“They don’t know you very well?” was the only excuse Drift could give. “I’m not sure if Ultra Magnus’ thoroughness is a blessing or a curse right now. On the one hand,” he held out a hand to visualize, taking the opportunity to hop up and sit on the berth nearest Ratchet, “this really is the worst. Magnus wants a warrant for your records, Rodimus won’t give him one because he doesn’t want Swerve’s shut down, and the only compromise they’ve been able to come up with is to send me here to try and sort it out for them. On the other,” Drift held out his other hand and weighed its imaginary contents against the first, “technically Magnus already has enough to shut the place down because some mechs got sick, since he doesn’t believe in _warnings_ where Swerve’s is concerned, but he’s holding off because he wants definitive proof for or against foul play first.”

And just what was he expecting him to do about it? Fortunately, Drift sighed dramatically and flopped down on the berth, and Ratchet realized Drift didn’t really expect him to solve the problem for him; he was just venting at his… friend? Berthpartner?

“Are you looking for sympathy, a sounding board, or a distraction then?” Ratchet asked, taking a page out of Rung’s book. He wasn’t a therapist, and Drift wasn’t looking for one, but it was a good way to find out if this was a conversation he wanted to deal with right now.

Drift shrugged without looking away from the ceiling. “Sympathy would be great, but I’m aware I literally signed up for this. Self inflicted wounds get no sympathy,” he answered very practically. “A sounding board would be good too, because this does need to be solved and I don’t know how. So… just whatever, I guess. You could distract me. You’re pretty distracting.”

Ratchet huffed a short laugh. “If what I’m _working on,”_ he emphasized the words, “is a good enough distraction for you, then by all means. It’s not so busy in here right now you can’t use it as a place to hide, and I’m not doing something so complicated I can’t talk. More than talk will have to wait until after my shift though,” he said, wondering — even a little bit hoping — that Drift would be interested.

“I like watching you work, especially if it isn’t an emergency. Your aura is a very soothing one. Right now it’s pink and green, which are very nice colors for you. Ostensibly I’m supposed to be convincing you to release the records,” Drift said, “but you’re way too busy for that,” he added quickly. “So in reality I’m just stalling until either Magnus forgets about this,” unlikely, “or I come up with some way to placate him.”

“I thought you liked red and white on me,” Ratchet said, unable to pass that one up even though the joke would encourage Drift to keep talking about auras.

“Red relates to the physical body,” Drift clarified. “It’s a good color for a medic in general, and, worn on your plating, is mark of your status and a declaration of your knowledge. It’s pretty common in your aura too, showing that you are grounded, realistic, active and survival oriented.” Ratchet winced, feeling that description was maybe _too_ accurate given the nonsense Drift was spouting. “I see it most often in emergencies, in general, and when you’re being stubborn, specifically.”

“Stubborn, huh? You know, if you’re looking for a way to stall, you could always tell Ultra Magnus my ‘aura’ was too red for you to talk with me and you have to try again later.” Ratchet wouldn’t mind Drift hanging around again later, if it came to that.

“Red isn’t a bad color, per se,” Drift corrected. “But it can indicate obsession, friction, and anger when it manifests from negative emotions. For example, when someone’s being stubborn,” he teased.

“Uh huh.” Stubbornly, Ratchet changed the subject. “Is Rodimus just refusing to issue a warrant because he likes spending time at Swerve’s?”

“That’s… part of the reason. This whole thing is just silly, too. I’ve read the Autobot Code, believe it or not, and given that Swerve’s is sanctioned by the command staff, and this is the first incident, it really shouldn’t deserve more than a warning. Ultra Magnus, however, is of the opinion that having a designated place to drink will just encourage misbehavior, so he’s determined to pounce on anything to justify getting rid of it.”

Ratchet didn’t doubt for a second that Drift had read the Autobot Code — more than once, if he was putting money on it. Between being a former Decepticon, an Autobot officer, and working around Ultra Magnus, he had more reasons than most to commit as much of the Code to memory as possible. “He’s overlooking the consequences of shutting the place down. Places like that might attract miscreants, but without Swerve’s they’d still be getting up to trouble on their own. If anything, having the bar there for them to congregate at makes them easier to police. But, of course,” Ratchet grumbled, pausing to curse at the welder in his hands as the tip threatened to break off, “Ultra Magnus stops listening the second anyone suggests bending the rules.”

“Literally,” Drift snorted. “His aura goes almost completely grey, shading to black if it’s me making the suggestion.” Ratchet ignored that. “So I need to come up with a way to placate him long enough for Rodimus to talk him down. Some reason for him to let Swerve off with a warning this time.” Drift put his arm over his optics. “It was just an accident, right? I don’t need to know the details, but just an off batch?”

“Far as I can tell, yeah.” If it _had_ been a deliberate poisoning attempt, it was a pathetic one. “No one had any severe or lasting symptoms beyond the initial upset.”

“So maybe if Rodimus can suggest a way for it to not happen again, Magnus’ll drop it.” For now. “Huh.”

“Huh, what?”

“Just something to think on.” Drift rolled over on the berth, careful of his swords. “You still up for a distraction? Because around dealing with the other officers, I did manage to hear something interesting.”

Incorrigible gossip!

“Define interesting,” Ratchet said, curious in spite of himself.

“First Aid…” he paused dramatically, “and Whirl.” He hummed a jaunty little tune.

Ratchet had to set down the microwelder and play that back to be sure he’d heard it right. “And just what,” he asked slowly, “are First Aid and Whirl supposedly doing together?”

“Apparently,” Drift singsonged, drawing out his juicy tidbit, “First Aid approached Whirl about some _first aid,_ which, you know Whirl. He threw a fit and refused to have anything to do with it. But then your apprentice said _something_ and two kliks later they were headed to Whirl’s quarters to play doctor, and First Aid hasn’t been out since — _waaaaay_ longer than it takes to fix some scratches.”

“He thought Whirl might accept a friend’s help more readily than a medic’s,” Ratchet said with a shrug. “I didn’t think he’d be able to convince him.”

“Since when does Whirl have friends? Name one,” Drift challenged smugly.

“Besides First Aid, apparently?” Ratchet shot back immediately, but he had to stop and think after that. Whirl really didn’t have friends; not on the _Lost Light_ , or back on Cybertron. “I can’t tell if he and Cyclonus are really out to get each other or if they’re settling into being frenemies.”

“Right now? Probably both.” Drift chuckled. “So you don’t think anything more than a medic’s care is going on with First Aid and Whirl. If that’s the case, why hasn’t anyone seen First Aid _or_ Whirl since then?”

“Maybe Whirl killed him and is trying to figure out how to dispose of the body,” Ratchet said absently, checking the microwelder tip again. It would be easier to just replace the fiddly thing, but millennia of making do with repaired, recycled, and repaired again tools because replacements were scarce or nonexistent had made him reluctant to give up on it. “I assume whoever you heard this from had their own ideas about what they’re getting up to.”

“Playing tetris.” Ratchet could hear Drift laughing. “Sexy time. Shaboinking. Lust-n-thrust. Midn—”

“I get it, I get it! If I want any other terms for it I can consult a thesaurus, you don’t have to keep going.” Especially since there were an awful lot of euphemisms for interfacing. Listing them all would take forever. “They can do whatever they want for all I care, just so long as First Aid isn’t late for work and I don’t have to pop any dents or untangle any cables.”

“But you’re wondering.”

“I thought the idea was to distract you, not me.” But Ratchet wasn’t really distracted enough to kick Drift out. “I suppose… huh.”

“Huh?” Drift prompted, a reversal of earlier.

“Whirl used to be a Wrecker,” Ratchet said, remembering the note in First Aid’s file about his reassignment at Delphi. “First Aid’s got a tendency to fixate on certain things, and one of his oldest obsessions is the Wreckers.”

“You think he saw the chance to pounce with Whirl finally in reach?” Drift was _far_ too amused, though perhaps it was understandable. First Aid was confident when it came to trying out new procedures, but didn’t otherwise come across as the aggressive type.

“Who says he’s the one who pounced? Whirl would kidnap anyone into his quarters if they started going on about his awesomeness.” Mech did like to talk big, and loved hearing others talk big about him. Whether or not that would have led to anything more… “They could just be talking about every issue of _Wreckers: Declassified_ that Whirl featured in.”

Drift laughed; it was a good sound to hear, especially given how stressed he’d been when he walked in. “That’s possible.”

“Whatever they’re doing, I’m sure we’ll all find out in due time.” Likely straight from the mechs themselves. If they had wound up fragging, Ratchet wouldn’t be surprised to hear Whirl announce it over the ship’s PA system.

“True,” Drift snickered.

They sat in comfortable silence — apart from Ratchet’s soft cursing at the microwelder — for a few moments.

“How’s Ambulon settling in?”

“Pretty well,” Ratchet said without looking up. “Though I’m not sure which is helping him more: not having the specter of the DJD hanging over him, or not having Pharma as his boss.”

Drift chuckled. “Both of those are good things.” He sobered a bit. “I just wanted to check. Rodimus likes to tout this as a neutral ship, but the reality is there’s only a handful of non-Autobots here. Not that Ambulon isn’t an Autobot! But…” He shrugged. “He hasn’t been willing to talk to me about it, so I worry.”

“Can’t blame you, after the Tailgate debacle.” Poor minibot had gotten jumped on hard for claiming he wanted to be a Decepticon. Ratchet wasn’t sorry he’d changed his mind once he had the facts, but the general attitude toward anyone with Decepticon sympathies or history among the crew wasn’t great — just look at Ultra Magnus’ behavior towards Drift. “He doesn’t really talk to me about it either, but I haven’t seen any signs of him being harrassed. I hate to say this,” but he’d already had the thought, and Drift had brought the topic up, “but your situation and his aren’t really comparable. Ambulon wasn’t a famous Decepticon with a long list of kills to his name before he defected, and he’s a medic now. That makes it a lot easier for people to forget he ever was a Decepticon, and to accept him as an Autobot.”

“Makes sense.” Drift lounged casually on the berth, glossing over the mention of his past. “You’ll tell me if he has any trouble, right? Not just with harassment, but with,” he made a vague gesture with one hand, as though to illustrate a concept too vague to put into words (which, honestly, didn’t help Ratchet understand at all), “anything.”

“That’s pretty open ended.” This time Ratchet did raise his head and fixed Drift with an impatient look. “I’m not about to stick my nose in where it isn’t wanted. He doesn’t need me to hover over him and constantly check in with him.”

Drift made a soft noise of frustration and flipped himself over onto his stomach. “Not really what I meant. Just…” He sighed. “If he says anything. I don’t know why Ambulon became a Decepticon, so I don’t know if there’s anything… ideas, preferences, stuff like that… that he holds onto despite defecting, and there aren’t going to be a lot of sympathetic audios for talking about that sort of thing, if he needs to, on this ship.”

“If he says anything, I can point out your audios are willing,” Ratchet promised, though he thought it was much more likely that Ambulon would talk to First Aid about such things than him. The two were close, both as coworkers and as friends. “Are _you_ needing sympathetic audios?”

“Why?” Drift laughed. “Are you volunteering?”

“Me? Sympathetic?” Ratchet scoffed. “You know better than that! Though if you are having trouble, I’ve got no problem telling anyone off.” Drift wasn’t perfect, but he also wasn’t a Decepticon. Not anymore.

“That’s what I thought.” Drift chuckled one last time. He looked at Ratchet longingly, then to the door with a sigh. “I probably need to go face up to my inability to convince you to share your files.”

“Good luck with that.” Ratchet didn’t envy him the task one bit. “Are you going to need another… distraction, later tonight?”

Drift looked back to Ratchet with a little surprise. “Sure! I mean, if you don’t mind.” His smile was a little shy. “I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition when I’m offering,” Ratchet said. He was a little surprised himself, but he didn’t regret making the invitation. “Meet you at Swerve’s? If it’s still open,” he tacked on jokingly.

“Yeah.” Drift sat up and hopped down from the berth. It was something of a miracle no one had come in; they had three medics now where before there had been only one, but Ratchet had still assigned himself what was normally the busiest shift on the ship. Hopefully that didn’t mean there would be a wave of injuries for Ambulon to deal with as soon as he was off duty.

“Ye~es?” Ratchet drew the word out leadingly when Drift hesitated, hands hovering on the doorframe uncertainly. “Was there something else?”

“Just wondering if we’re in the sort of relationship that does casual, public affection,” Drift said with another vague hand wave.

Slagging doorknob questions. Ratchet set the microwelder down and thought for a klik. “I’m not sure,” he said honestly, since he still didn’t really know just what sort of relationship they were in. “As long as you’re not doing it to embarrass me, the occasional gesture would be fine. Just don’t take it personally if I don’t start getting all touchy-feely in front of everyone. That’s not really my style, no matter who my partner is.”

“There’s no one here now?” The way Drift said it, it was definitely a question.

“No. There’s not.”

Drift turned around and stepped in close. Ratchet wasn’t sure what he expected him to do; maybe take his hand, like he had last night at Swerve’s. He wasn’t prepared for him to lean in gently to bunt foreheads, touching their helm crests together. It was a romantic, intimate gesture. The sort that Pharma hadn’t indulged in often, and Ratchet wasn’t sure why it surprised him that Drift wanted to.

He stepped away quickly, looking down, away from Ratchet’s gaze. Embarrassed? “I should go.”

Ratchet didn’t argue, but he did take a step forward, bringing them close enough again to clap a hand on Drift’s shoulder. Less romantic, maybe, but if the contact made Drift feel better, he could do it. It wasn’t like it cost him much. “See you tonight.”

“Yeah.” Drift’s smile was glowingly happy, so Ratchet must have done the right thing. “See you.”

Again, Ratchet caught the moment where Drift went from an oddly silent gait to his usual bounce as he left the privacy of the medbay. Was it a sign of trust, that he didn’t feel the need to make a show of being happy and friendly around him? After what they’d just been talking about, it wouldn’t surprise him if Drift played up being the cheery Autobot a little bit in an attempt to fit in, even if most of it wasn’t an act. That damned optimism was definitely genuine, at the very least.

Shaking his head, Ratchet let the thought go. He had a shift to finish, and a microwelder to whip into shape.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this first chapter today so as not to risk conflicting with the Ao3 shutdown tomorrow. From here on out, updates will be on Fridays. Buckle up because this one is going to be a long fic for the long haul. XD
> 
> (this fic is my 200th on ao3 AND officially puts me a over a million words posted to ao3. yay! ~dragon)


	2. Chapter 2

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Unfortunately, Ratchet had to stop and take care of a couple of patients before he got the microwelder working. It would have been nice to have a shift where there was nothing to repair except a fiddly piece of old equipment, but the residents of the  _ Lost Light _ were as accident prone as any group of mechs. Arguably more so.

By the time Ambulon walked in to start his shift, there was one mech dozing in the observation room to make sure his engine cough wasn’t contagious — even if it was minor — and one missing a leg from the knee down while Ratchet finished fabricating new parts for his crushed foot. Idiot had dropped a cargo crate on himself.

“Reporting for my shift, sir,” Ambulon greeted, looking around. “Anything I need to know?”

“Not much.” Ratchet passed him the charts for their current guests. “I don’t really expect either of them to take a turn for the worse in anything other than attitude, but I don’t trust them to leave either, so you get to keep an optic on them.”

“Looking after newframes. Goody.” Ambulon took the charts and glanced through them. “At least First Aid isn’t here to nag me about cuffing them to the bed if needed.” Despite his words, his EM field when mentioning First Aid was  _ fond. _

“He’s a good mech,” Ratchet said with a measure of affection of his own. “How are you both settling in?” He wasn’t going to pry, but after talking with Drift, he couldn’t help asking.

Ambulon shrugged. “He’s a lot more sociable than I am, so he’s making friends. I’ll manage without him for a few shifts while he lets off some charge.” He finished reading the charts. “He’ll come back here when he and his new berth buddy are done, and we’ll be fine.” He paused, then focused on Ratchet. “How are you doing?” he asked, almost as if by rote.

“Fine. Better,” Ratchet said, flexing his new fingers. “I keep catching myself waiting for them to seize up, then remember why they aren’t,” he admitted with more candor than he’d intended. He didn’t know Ambulon very well, but Ambulon had known Pharma, and had shared in the trauma of what had happened at Delphi. He and First Aid were probably the only ones who could appreciate the mixed feelings Ratchet had about his former friend, but it still felt awkward to bring him up. “I just need more time to get used to them.”

“It’s rather odd remembering he’s gone for me as well,” Ambulon said. “What happened, at the end… That wasn’t like him. Or if it was,” he lowered his voice, “it didn’t show when he took me in. It’s been hard sometimes, to remember that I’m allowed to think of him fondly.”

“It’s not how I remembered him. Pharma was never what you would have called personable, but that… I never would have expected it from him.” It still didn’t quite feel real, even with all the incontrovertible evidence stacked up in the form of the bodies of his victims. “He was a proud surgeon, to the point of arrogance at times, but he wasn’t a bad mech.” But then, the war had destroyed plenty of good mechs without killing them over the millennia; even when it was supposedly over. “People on this ship do have a tendency to see things in black and white though.”

“I can’t say I don’t understand that,” Ambulon responded almost brusquely. He looked down at his hands, and with a sigh picked at a loose chip of paint. It flaked off, fluttering silently to the ground. He was going to need a repaint soon, and for the life of him Ratchet couldn’t figure out why the  new paint wasn’t adhering properly to the old, or to his plating. “We’ve been divided into polar opposites for so long, and showing sympathy for the devil was as treasonous as siding with him.”

Was he talking about before he’d defected, a Decepticon harboring Autobot sympathies? Or was he — as Drift seemed to think he might — thinking more about his current situation, an Autobot with lingering Decepticon ideals? “You can come to me if anyone here gives you any grief,” Ratchet said, putting the offer out there either way. “Drift said you could talk to him too, if you ever needed to.”

Ambulon’s optics brightened in surprise. “Drift? You mean  _ Deadlock? _ I’m not sure I would dare…”

Ratchet chuckled. “You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable around him. And yes, he  _ was  _ Deadlock, though I wouldn’t call him that to his face if I were you.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” the other medic said again, a bit faintly. “I’d be perfectly fine not to be face to face with him again.”

“He does wind up in here fairly regularly,” Ratchet said, thinking of how Drift had taken to visiting him (besides all the times following Rodimus in his shenanigans had landed him in need of repairs). “I can make an effort to have myself or First Aid be the ones to treat him, but avoiding him entirely’s likely to be difficult. He’s not a bad mech either, you know.”

“I can treat him,” Ambulon said firmly, regaining his bearings. “I have  _ lots _ of practice sedating combative patients. I’ll just have to remember to booby trap my door again afterwards…”

“He’s not going to come after you for knocking him out if he doesn’t cooperate.” He’d never come after Ratchet, anyway. “I’ve got a wrench with his name on it if he tries.”

The look Ratchet got in response to that was a little disbelieving, but Ambulon didn’t say anything else about something as silly as  _ Drift _ taking revenge for a medical procedure. Frankly, Drift was much more likely to try to get Ambulon to sing Primus’ praises with him for healing him. Instead, all Ambulon said was, “Be careful, Ratchet.”

“Be careful?” Ratchet repeated, blinking in surprise. “Of what?”

“Of him. Deadlock.” Ambulon lowered his voice, stepping a little closer. The patient — the one who wasn’t in isolation — wasn’t close enough to hear anything but the indistinct murmur of their voices, but it was obvious Ambulon didn’t want to risk even that much being overheard. “I saw you coming back with him from Swerve’s, and First Aid said he didn’t leave until he was on shift. I can’t tell you what to do, but Decepticon relationships can be… rough. Deadlock’s no exception, and he’s got a rep.”

“Oh, really?” Ratchet was torn between irritation and curiosity. He knew what the Autobots had said about Deadlock on the battlefield, but not what his fellow Decepticons had said about him off it. “What sort of rep?”

“He mostly kept to himself, didn’t take a lot of partners, but when he did…” Ambulon shuddered a bit. “Mechs called him a vampire, siphonist, among other things. He liked to drink fuel from his lovers, and didn’t take ones in a position to refuse him.”

While his first thought was that that was patently ridiculous, there was a part of Ratchet that wouldn’t be surprised to find out there was a kernel of truth at the heart of those rumors. Coming from the Dead End as he had, a fixation on fuel wouldn’t really be all that strange for someone like Drift. “I’ll guard my lines then,” Ratchet said wryly. “I  _ do  _ happen to be in a position to refuse him, regardless of his rank on the ship.”

“If he lets you,” Ambulon muttered pessimistically, but didn’t wait for a response. He looked down at the chart again, then over to the ISO room. “I should get to work.”

“And I should let you get to it.” Drift would be looking for him at Swerve’s soon, with any luck — and not with designs on his energon. “I’ll see you later.” 

Ratchet set off for the bar, not realizing the lightness in his step until he was almost there. He really was looking forward to this. It was a novel feeling… 

The feeling began to fade as he heard Whirl shouting before he even reached the entrance to the bar. Fantastic. Ratchet’s steps slowed subconsciously; he was  _ not _ looking forward to helping deal with the aftermath of a bar fight. Except, as he got closer, Whirl seemed to be the only one yelling. And he didn’t sound like the usual, aggressive Whirl. He sounded… happy?

“—of applause for the awesomeness of my awesome buddy who thinks I’m awesome!” the helicopter finished calling out as Ratchet walked in. He was up on a table, probably not as drunk as he was acting given he hadn’t fallen over yet. He snapped his pinchers pointedly. “Come on! Applause!”

There was a ring of empty tables around him, but it seemed no one in the bar wanted to risk Whirl’s uncertain temper regardless of where they were sitting and clapped, albeit somewhat half-sparked in some cases. Ratchet didn’t join in. Instead he snuck over to the counter, signalling Swerve for his usual. 

“What’s going on over there?” he asked quietly, hoping to avoid drawing Whirl’s attention while he waited for Drift.

“Whirl’s bumping bumpers with First Aid.” Swerve nodded over to the table where, now that Ratchet’s attention had been drawn to it, he could see First Aid sitting behind Whirl. His head was ducked, embarassed, but he still looked pleased with himself. “Apparently this means he needs to announce it to everyone.”

“Ah.” Well. At least he hadn’t co-opted the ship’s PA system for it. “Good for him, if it means he isn’t going to start anything for once. As long as they don’t start doing it right here just to prove it.”

Swerve laughed. “Agreed. And hey, there’s your boytoy now,” he waved briefly over toward the door. By the time Ratchet turned to look, Drift was already making his way to the counter.

“Hey.” He smiled when he saw Ratchet. He hesitated a moment, then put his hand on Ratchet’s shoulder, trailing his fingers down to his elbow. “How are you?”

With a chuckle, Swerve moved away with a quick, “I’ll get your drink.”

Well. If Swerve knew about them, it was pretty much a given they were A Thing now. Ratchet found it really didn’t bother him. “Not too bad,” he said, letting Drift’s hand stay on his arm. He nodded toward Whirl, still perched on the tabletop. “It looks like you were right about them.”

Drift preened. “Better than Whirl killing First Aid and trying to figure out how to hide the body,” he teased.

“Much better.” Whirl would probably be pretty good at hiding a body, and that would have been a pain to deal with. Especially when Ratchet finally had some competent hands in the medbay! “Now all that’s left is to bet on how long it’ll last.”

“Which I’m not supposed to know about,” Drift said seriously. Swerve returned with his drink and Drift thanked him before he was called to serve someone else. “Because,” he continued, “if I  _ knew _ about a betting pool, I’d be obligated, as an Autobot officer, to shut it down.”

“What if the captain was one of the ones placing bets?” 

“Then I’m  _ really _ not supposed to know about it,” Drift said blandly.

“Lucky for you I’m talking purely in hypotheticals then.” Though of  _ course _ there was a betting pool, and Ratchet might just have to go looking for it later. He wondered what odds were being put on him and Drift… “How did it go for you after you left?”

“I managed to avoid Ultra Magnus entirely. Maybe he actually decided to recharge during the second half of his off-shift.” Drift took a sip of his tea and sighed. His optics went off and Ratchet could feel him controlling his ventilations until he took a second sip. His optics came back on, and he looked… less disheveled, somehow, though his plating and paint had been perfectly groomed when he walked in. “So Swerve’s will stay open another cycle. I’m convincing Rodimus to call an officers’ meeting next cycle and you’ll need to be there, so you’re warned.” 

“For once.” Rodimus did not like officers’ meetings and had a tendency to resist scheduling them as much as possible. The result was that the meetings he couldn’t avoid didn’t happen at regular times, and anyone not involved in scheduling them (namely, anyone other than Rodimus, Drift, and Ultra Magnus) often got less than a breem’s notice they were supposed to be there. “Nice to know in advance. And just so you know, in advance: I’m not bringing any charts.”

Drift just shrugged. “Ultra Magnus may be laboring under the erroneous impression you will be, but I’m not. We’re going to get him to let Swerve off with a warning.” Then he sighed. “What a shift. And I’ve still got bridge duty as soon as it’s officially over.”

"No rest for the weary, huh?" Ratchet found himself thinking that was a shame. Not that he hadn't known Drift would be busy and unable to spend his off-shift with him again, but still. "Who else is on with you?"

"Ultra Magnus is on troubleshooting duty," Drift replied. "Rodimus is supposed to be resting."  _ Resting _ looked quite different for all three officers, of course. Ultra Magnus (as proven this cycle) usually spent it continuing to work until his systems demanded recharge. Rodimus usually partied until he passed out. With any luck he'd wait until after Ratchet had left to come here to do it. Dealing with Rodimus, especially a drunk Rodimus, wasn't something Ratchet wanted any part of.

"At least Ultra Magnus won't call you back before your break is over."

Drift looked down at his drink, a tinge of guilt in his field. "I took myself off duty a little early so I could be here when you got off. It's just troubleshooting," he defended. "Some of it can wait." 

Actually, Ratchet knew, some mechs  _ did _ wait specifically until Drift was the one on troubleshooting duty to bring things to him. Ultra Magnus was just too strict and Rodimus too flaky for some mechs to actually  _ want  _ either of them dealing with their problems. But he didn’t say anything about that, focusing instead on the issue of timing. If there was one thing Ratchet didn't care for about having extra assistants in the medbay, it was the way it was skewing his schedules. Of course he and Drift didn’t have as much time off together, now that he was deliberately  _ trying  _ to spend time with him instead of enjoying whenever they happened to run into each other. "How long do you have then?" 

"Maybe a joor," Drift said sheepishly. "Unless someone comes looking for me with a problem that can actually be solved in a joor and can't be solved by Ultra Magnus. He," Ratchet could barely hear Drift as he mumbled into his drink, "needs stuff to keep him busy."

"He is very good at making work for himself. And everyone else." But Ratchet didn't want to spend any more time thinking about Ultra Magnus. "How's your drink?" he asked, hiding a grimace. That had come out sounding stupider than he'd meant it to.

“It’s good.” Drift smiled. His expression softened as he watched Ratchet. “And yours?”

He'd barely tasted it. "Fine."

Drift chuckled. He swirled his drink — energon tea, of course — in its cup. “Too bad there’s no liquid fuel allowed out in the halls, else I’d suggest taking this someplace more private.”

"Maybe we should meet somewhere more private next time then." Not for drinks, since those weren't allowed in private quarters any more than they were in the halls, but there were other things…"If that's amenable to you."

“Sounds perfect.” Drift gave Ratchet a shy look. “I’ve got a little bit of time next cycle after you get off shift.”

"Really?" Then perhaps they should take advantage of the opportunity. Ratchet went ahead and bit the bullet. "My place or yours?"

“I could show you mine,” Drift said hesitantly. Then, stronger. “Yeah. That sounds good. I can show you my collection of chakra crystals,” he finished with a smirk.

"I'd assume you're joking, but somehow I get the feeling you're not," Ratchet said, only slightly sarcastic. "Chakra crystals."

Drift shrugged.  _ ”Some _ sects use them to meditate.”

"And yours is one of them? Or do you just collect them for show?"

Drift looked down, into the depths of his tea. “A little of both,” he said, much more seriously than Ratchet had expected him to. “They actually belonged to my mentor, the mech who initiated me. But I never really had much success using them to meditate.”

Ratchet bit back any further disparaging comments on the crystals. "You've managed to hang onto them a long time then."

“Yeah. There were some centuries I didn’t dare take them out of subspace, but I kept them.”

Almost everyone on the  _ Lost Light _ thought Drift had picked up religion along with that pointy thing on his back. It was a reasonable assumption, given how popular atheism — aggressive, religion-equals-treason atheism — was among Decepticons, but from the teasing he and Drift had engaged in since the ship’s launch, Ratchet had picked up enough hints to know better. He didn’t know when, or how long ago, Drift had turned to religion, but he knew it had been while he was a Decepticon. 

He didn’t talk about his mentor much, but whoever he'd been, his name hadn't been Wing.

"That's impressive," Ratchet said, not wanting to pry for details at the bar. It didn't really matter to him; if Drift wanted to talk about it later, in private, he could. "There's plenty of mechs who don't have any mementos like that left."

“Yeah.” His optics shut off, Drift held himself still for an in-vent, then released, before taking a deep sip of his tea. “How about you?” he asked a little more cheerfully. “You have anything hanging around from way back when?”

"…No," Ratchet said, after a moment's thought. He looked down into his drink, feeling somewhat awkward. "I was more focused on preserving people than things. And I lost a lot of them anyway."

Drift didn’t say anything stupid —  _ you did your best, Ratchet — _ like a lot of mechs would have. He just put his hand on Ratchet’s shoulder, then trailed his fingers down to his wrist. “People are more important.”

"They are." And they were  _ still _ losing people, even now that the war was "over".

Ratchet looked down at his fingers. For a second, they looked blue.

“If you’re willing to stop at just one drink, I  _ might  _ have enough time to blow your circuits before rushing to the bridge.” Drift didn’t even bother hiding the change of subject, or the offered distraction.

Ratchet took a deep, deliberate in-vent, then knocked back the rest of his drink. But instead of calling for another, he turned to Drift. "I could be persuaded."

Drift drained the dregs of his tea. “Well,” he leaned in to whisper into Ratchet’s audio,“I’d  _ like _ to persuade you.” Mindful of Ratchet’s desire not to be embarrassed though, he didn’t begin  _ persuading _ here and now in Swerve’s. The twinkle in his optic though, that  _ intent…  _ Ratchet found himself hard-pressed to keep his fans from turning on. 

"Let's go then."

“Lead the way.” 

Drift set the cup down on the counter for Swerve to pick up, along with Ratchet’s. Ratchet found a bit of a smile returning to his face as he fell in step with him, following him out of the bar.

They wound up going back to Ratchet’s quarters again, since his habsuite was closer and they didn’t have a lot of time. Ratchet hadn’t drunk enough to fully account for the slight giddiness he felt at doing something like this. Sneaking off with a lover while one of them was on duty… Ratchet had seen and heard about plenty of mechs doing the same, but had never really understood the allure. Drift was pretty alluring though.

With a flutter of excitement, Ratchet opened the door when they arrived and led the way inside. He could sense Drift’s EM field buzzing against his back. Should he turn on the lights? Their optics and biolights were  _ technically _ enough to see by—

The door slid closed and Drift’s hands were suddenly  _ on _ him and he forgot all about the lights. Confident, exploratory fingers dipped briefly into his hip armor before gliding over the roof of his alt mode and hooking around his light bar. “Caught you.”

“Yes, you did.” Ratchet didn’t stop his fans this time. A soft, slightly rattling hum filled the air as they spun up, pulling cooler air into his rapidly heating frame. “And I believe you said something about blowing my circuits.”

“Mmhmm…” Drift hummed as he nibbled on his shoulder armor. He couldn’t quite reach around the kibble making up his ambulance roof to get at the most sensitive, exposed cables of his neck, but he made a good try at it. This time, Ratchet couldn’t help but notice the more pronounced points of his teeth. Should he be worried about what Ambulon had said? Should he be grateful Drift couldn’t reach his fuel lines in their current position? 

After giving it a few nanokliks’ consideration, Ratchet decided he didn’t really care. He could give as good as he got if he had to, but he didn’t think it would be necessary. Drift didn’t seem interested in using those fangs for anything other than tactile stimulation, and the only problem with that was it wasn’t what Ratchet needed right now. It wasn’t enough.

“So impatient,” Drift chuckled at the shift in Ratchet’s field.  _ “I’m _ the one in a hurry.” Still, he released his grip on Ratchet’s light bar and gave him a nudge toward the berth. “Go sit down?”

“I’m not impatient,” Ratchet blatantly lied, moving to sit in the edge of his recharge slab. “Maybe you’re just too enticing.”

“Flatterer.” Drift followed on silent footsteps, divesting himself of his swords as he did so. He carefully laid them down on the floor, out of the way, and came to kneel in front of Ratchet. With a mischievous look, he bit the edge of Ratchet’s knee, opening the highest port at the top of his spine. Invitation.

Ratchet’s cables pinged for release and he let the cover on his arm slide out of the way. “I don’t flatter and you know it,” he said huskily, unspooling one of the cords. “I say things because they’re true.”

“I know, but pride isn’t always an attractive quality.” Drift sighed softly, just a breath of air across Ratchet’s legs, as he nibbled the bits of armor he could reach; Ratchet could feel the speedster’s hands on his tires, exploring and gently spinning them. In the dim lighting, Ratchet heard more than saw two more of the covers over Drift’s ports slide part way open; he couldn’t tell if that was a deliberate invitation or just a response to the  _ anticipation _ he could feel in Drift’s field.

“Pride isn’t attractive when it’s arrogance,” Ratchet countered, firmly  _ not  _ thinking of any red and orange examples on the ship. “Confidence, on the other hand, is very attractive. Especially when it’s backed with actual skill.” Which Ratchet suspected Drift had enough of to warrant a little boasting, for all his modesty. The other night had certainly been good enough to leave him looking forward to future encounters! “Like the way you move. It’s so…” The word he wanted was  _ efficient,  _ but that didn’t sound very sexy, even if Ratchet found such things extremely attractive. Rather than try to explain himself, he decided to let the data talk for him and brought his cable up to Drift’s port. “May I?”

“Mmm-hmmn,” Drift hummed his agreement around another nibble. He did seem to genuinely enjoy doing that, even if it wasn’t doing a whole lot for Ratchet. Maybe that was where the rumors had started, before getting blown out of proportion as such things tended to do.

More thoughts for later, if ever. Right now, Drift had given him permission, and that was all the encouragement Ratchet needed to plug in.

It was different plugging into a lover, rather than a diagnostic computer. Freer. Ratchet felt himself falling into Drift’s mind. He could barely perceive the deeper firewalls Drift didn’t lower for him, and he didn’t demand more access; not all of his own firewalls were down either. Instead he revelled in the access — mostly sensory — he had. He could  _ smell/taste _ himself through Drift’s senses, and got the echo of Drift picking up from him what he was picking up from Drift. It felt like a dizzying amount of data, despite how little it actually was, all tinged with the sense-memory of incense that seemed to overlay all of Drift’s mind. 

_ Ready? _ Drift asked with a purely mental chuckle, as Ratchet managed to center himself in the feedback loop, instead of getting swept up in it like a virgin.

_ You have something specific planned,  _ Ratchet realized, and  _ curiosity  _ flowed across their connection. Should he plug in a second cord? How many did Drift want? Some things required more bandwidth… 

_ If you want, _ Drift consented, answering the unvoiced question.  _ But this is fine. _

One it was. Ratchet stroked his fingers along one of the pointed finials on the side of Drift’s helm.  _ Then I’m ready. _

He “watched” Drift pull a program from his files. He politely let Ratchet’s automatic defenses run a scan on it, war-paranoid antivirals checking that it wasn’t dangerous, then opened it and set it running.

_ Pleasure _ overwhelmed Ratchet as Drift hooked himself right into his sensornet. Ghost signals traveled up and down his frame,  _ inside _ his frame, where intellectually Ratchet knew there weren’t even sensors  _ to _ transmit that sort of data. But it didn’t matter, because his own systems were suddenly driving him toward a very  _ distracting _ overload.

There was a section of his processor that was absolutely fascinated by the program and wanted to stand back and observe it, but it didn’t get a chance. The sheer volume of input it generated quickly swallowed up any and all available bandwidth, edging out all other thought — which was exactly what Ratchet had been wanting, ultimately. Not-thinking, not-dwelling on past failures or present stressors, just  _ feeling  _ and  _ experiencing  _ and  _ now! _

Closing his fingers more firmly on Drift’s helm did nothing to ground him, but Ratchet couldn’t help it. He could only hope he wasn’t holding on too tightly before he lost the ability to worry about that, too.

Dimly, he heard his own cry as it became too much. Electricity crackled along his plating and across his vision and he overloaded.

Ratchet could feel Drift’s  _ smirk _ as he packed up his code so Ratchet could recover, and this time he went ahead and said it, once he was able to: “You know, sometimes efficiency is extremely attractive.” His vocalizer crackled just a little with the last of its reset, lacing the words with static. “That was a very successful distraction.”

“Well let’s get you  _ efficiently _ cleaned up then,” Drift chuckled, helping Ratchet lay down on the berth. Ratchet felt a little confused — clean up? Fragging wasn’t exactly messy unless someone flailed around and broke something — but Drift’s touch was very soothing as he wiped down Ratchet’s cords and carefully coiled them away. 

He lit a stick of incense, then climbed onto the slab with Ratchet. 

“Carry that everywhere with you, do you?” It actually was sort of relaxing though. Ratchet wrapped an arm around Drift, unperturbed by the increasingly familiar scent. It helped fill the space in his processor as his thoughts started trying to creep back in, keeping the worst of them at bay. The warm hum of Drift’s frame helped too, giving him something neutrally pleasant to focus on. “Thank you.”

Drift didn’t answer the question. His engine purred in contentment as he let Ratchet pull him close. “I can’t stay long,” he reminded them both with a note of regret.

Ratchet sighed. “I know. But you don’t have to leave just yet.”

“No, I don’t.” Drift’s field matched the note of his engine.  _ Utterly contented.  _ It was a sentiment Ratchet shared entirely.

All too soon, of course, Drift did have to leave. Ratchet reluctantly released him to roll out of the berth and get to his feet. “When’s your next off-shift?”

“Starts just before you’re expected back in the medbay,” Drift answered as he pulled his swords back on. Bridge officer shifts were longer than medbay ones. Each officer spent two shifts on duty — bridge, then troubleshooting — then one for rest. Medbay shifts  _ had _ been on nearly the same schedule with Ratchet just alternating on and off duty, and spending too much of his off duty time in the medbay anyway, until Ratchet had reorganized things. Which, if he had everything slotted right in his processor, meant the next off-duty shift they had together would be the cycle after that. “Meet you at my quarters when you get off?”

“So you can show me your chakra crystals?”

“Of course.” Drift flashed a bright smile. “Looking forward to seeing them? I’ve got plenty of other things to show off too.” 

Ratchet wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the leer or not. He hoped he hadn’t. “I guess I can put up with a few crystals then,” he joked.

“Great!” Drift took two steps back toward the berth, gave Ratchet’s arm a quickly becoming familiar caress, then leaned down and bunted their helm crests together briefly.

“See you then.” Ratchet actually pressed back, then settled back on the berth. “Good luck tonight.”

“From your vocalizer to Primus’ audios,” Drift couldn’t resist the jab as he let himself out.

Ratchet snorted into the empty room. “Smartaft.”

.

.

.

The next time Ratchet saw Drift, it wasn’t for their rendezvous in Drift’s quarters, it was for a farce of an officers’ meeting. Which Drift had warned him was coming, but that didn’t make him any happier about it. The summons came right as his shift was starting in the medbay, which left him the choice of either calling First Aid back in or leaving the medbay manned only by the meddrones until he got back.

Ratchet chose to leave the medbay to the drones. First Aid’s only pass-ons were the same two Ratchet had left in Ambulon’s care the night before (now cuffed to their berths, as Ambulon had threatened), despite his hope that someone would come in and demand his presence so he could leave Rodimus and Ultra Magnus to argue in peace. 

That was exactly what he found them doing when he arrived. Rodimus was clearly irritated with Ultra Magnus, and was controlling the meeting in a way he almost never did unless he’d been goaded into it. Ratchet felt sorry for Drift though; this was the beginning of his off-shift, and he looked about ready to crash where he sat. He was managing to stay upright in his chair, sleepily attentive, but otherwise was letting himself fade into the background of the argument. If someone  _ had  _ goaded Rodimus into taking charge for once, Ratchet could guess who was behind it.

“No,” Rodimus asserted, accompanied by a completely unnecessary fist against the table. “We’re not shutting down Swerve’s. We’re not  _ arresting _ him. It wasn’t sabotage. If it was, then Ratch would have told us.”.

Ultra Magnus cast a suspicious look at the medic. “Perhaps.”

“No ‘perhaps’ about it,” Ratchet said. “If it had been a deliberate poisoning, I’d have reported it as one. But I didn’t, did I? So maybe you should believe me when I say it was accidental.”

“I’d be careful,” Drift put in quietly when Ultra Magnus started to respond; Ratchet couldn’t feel Ultra Magnus’ field, but he didn’t need to be able to see “auras” to know the mech was being stubborn, “about accusing our Chief Medical Officer of anything without proof.”

That turned Ultra Magnus’ distrustful scowl on Drift, who weathered it with the same silent aplomb as always.

“Either you trust my expertise or you don’t,” Ratchet said, not so much trying to draw attention back to himself as feeling the point needed to be made. “Even when my hands were failing, my knowledge wasn’t, and neither was my integrity. I don’t make medical determinations based on politics.” Frankly, he was rather proud of how calmly that had come out, given the circumstances. “From where I’m sitting, the only thing Swerve’s is guilty of is a bit of carelessness.  _ Not  _ fostering a den of criminal activity.”

Ultra Magnus visibly rethought his strategy. “Carelessness which should not be allowed when mechs’ lives are at stake,” he rumbled threateningly. “It may not have lead to any  _ lasting _ harm this time,” he ground out, “but he must be disciplined.”

“Which,” Rodimus said brightly as Drift faded into the background once again, “brings us to our compromise. We’re  _ not _ shutting the place down. Nope. So here’s what we’re going to do:  _ you,” _ he pointed at Ultra Magnus, “are going to let Swerve off with a warning, and  _ you,” _ he pointed at Ratchet, “are going to provide a little medical oversight of the quality of fuel he serves.” 

Rodimus was clearly pleased with himself over the idea. Almost as if he’d come up with it entirely on his own. Ratchet was happy to let him think that, if it got them out of this mess. “I’d like to know a bit more about what you mean by ‘a little’ oversight before I agree to anything, but I’m not against it in principle,” he said, doing his best to give the impression he was conceding something. “Prevention is the best way to treat upset tanks, after all.”

“Random testing or something like that,” Rodimus said glibly.

“I can work with Ratchet to come up with a schedule,” Drift volunteered.

Ultra Magnus scowled, realizing he’d been outmaneuvered. “As long as it is  _ strict _ enough to ensure safety, and there are clear consequences for when the energon fails to meet with the standards required, I will  _ abide,” _ he bit out the word, “by the new ruling.”

“Good!” Rodimus clapped his hands together. “Drift, Ratchet, make sure Ultra Magnus gets a copy of the new plan when you’re done. Meeting dismissed!” He stood and sauntered out without waiting to hear anyone else’s opinion on the matter.

“We’ll get it to you within a reasonable timeframe,” Ratchet was quick to say before Ultra Magnus could try to make any demands. “I’m supposed to be on duty right now, and Drift is supposed to be  _ off  _ duty.” 

If there was anything that could get Ultra Magnus to back down, it was a reminder of the rules, and the  _ rule _ was that a mech needed at least one rest period for every two shifts on duty. “Of course,” he said, and got up to leave. “I will expect it as soon as possible.”

Ratchet felt Drift’s  _ tired-but-satisfied _ field against his own a moment before the swordmech’s arms slid around his waist and his chin rested on his shoulder. “I told you. He’s all red, grey and black. Stubborn, guarded and unforgiving. One of these cycles,” Drift said wistfully, “I’d like to see what color he is when he’s enjoying himself. Probably yellow; he strikes me as an intellectual.”

“Could dump a bucket of paint on him. Then he’d be yellow, and enjoying himself prosecuting someone for the prank.”

Drift laughed. “You might have something there.” He hummed as he held Ratchet closer for a moment, then reluctantly let go. “I’d love to join you in the medbay, but I have meditation, prayers, and recharge to get to, in that order.”

“Make sure you get to that last one,” Ratchet ordered, knowing that Drift had put in a lot of effort behind the scenes to get things to play out as smoothly as they just had. “If I’ve got time,” which he probably would, “I’ll draft something about medical oversight at Swerve’s that we can look at together later.”

“Sounds good.” Still, Drift didn’t fully let go of Ratchet’s hand until they were out in the hall, when he turned toward the officers’ quarters. Hopefully to sleep. Dumbaft had a tendency to think meditation was just as good as recharge.

When Ratchet arrived in the medbay, he found it blissfully quiet. It was perhaps unfair to call Whirl the  _ Lost Light’s _ biggest troublemaker, but he was the ship’s biggest source of incidental injuries. With him and First Aid bumping bumpers (as Swerve put it), Ratchet really did have another pretty quiet shift. At one point Cyclonus wandered in, looking kind of lost, but then left as soon as Ratchet addressed him. Shame, that; he might have had some good ideas regarding regulations for Swerve’s. The mech had a much stronger sense of honor and fairness than Ratchet had initially credited him with, and it would have been nice to have someone to talk to.

The plan Ratchet ultimately came up with was his best guess at what would be frequent enough checks to count as actual supervision, without being a burden to the mechs involved in carrying them out — namely, him and Drift. Ultra Magnus would almost certainly argue for more checks to ensure Swerve kept his standards high, but Ratchet planned to randomize the timing of fewer checks to accomplish the same goal. Not knowing for sure when an inspection was coming would prevent Swerve from only making an effort when it mattered, and being lax the rest of the time.

As for just what he should be checking for… Ratchet listed off all the things he could think of that could contaminate fuel, both in the form of inert substances as well as those technopathogens that were passed on by fuel consumption. The rules he came up with based on that list mostly boiled down to “keep everything clean”, but he did also add in the standards he’d learned as a student medic for the safekeeping of medical grade energon. Containers needed to be used or discarded four cycles after first being opened, energon needed to be stored in a proper environment both before and after containers were opened, no handling fuel with bare hands…

And if Swerve complained about any of it, they could always remind him of the alternative. Because if he rejected this compromise, even Rodimus would have to concede to letting Ultra Magnus deal with the “potential danger” as he saw fit.

By the time his shift ended and he passed off his one remaining patient, along with a pile of leg-pieces for Ambulon to assemble, Ratchet had a good first draft that addressed everything that could be done from a  _ medical _ standpoint. Looking at the document made him feel a bit giddy, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he’d never had to make something like this to police the various sanctioned fuelling spots during the war. Such places got sanctioned by the command staff because they were safer than personal, hidden, stills, but no one had the time to  _ police _ them. If the mechs running them weren’t careful, they got shut down, but other than that there were no standards. But now, with fighting not a constant threat looming over them (even if it happened far more often than Ratchet liked for supposed “peacetime”), they had the time and resources to make things  _ better. _

So he was feeling pleased and more than a little proud of the document in his subspace as he made his way to Drift’s habsuite in the officers’ block, right across the hall from Rodimus’ and next to Ultra Magnus’. There were a few empty suites left; Ratchet could have claimed one, he supposed, but he was happy with his quarters nearer the medbay.

Drift blinked as he opened the door at Ratchet’s ping. The last wisps of recharge lingered in his EM field, clinging to his plating like stubborn engine grease, and he didn’t have his swords on him. Ratchet didn’t get a chance to ask if he’d woken him before he smiled and stepped aside. “Good evening. I’ve been looking forward to your visit.” A flash of  _ nervousness _ flickered through his field as Ratchet took in the space. 

It, predictably, smelled like the incense Drift was so fond of, and he saw a bucket and cleaning cloth stashed in one corner where its owner had forgotten to put it away after using it to wipe down all the surfaces before recharging. There wasn’t too much else in the room besides the recharge slab, for all that the room was larger than Ratchet’s, though Ratchet suspected the one completely empty corner was kept so on purpose for meditation. A small, short stand for incense and what Ratchet assumed were the chakra crystals was positioned so it would be at optic level with a mech of Drift’s size seated on the floor, while the taller sword stand (currently in use) was beside the berth. Apparently having his weapons within arms’ reach was important enough to come before putting them closer to the workbench with the neatly arranged tools for caring for them.

“So…” Drift fidgeted. It was obvious he’d cleaned up for the occasion and was now rather anxious about Ratchet’s reaction. “Want to see the crystals?”

“Sure.” It was as good a place to start as any. Hopefully it would help make things a little less awkward for Drift to have something to talk about, even if it was something Ratchet found somewhat silly.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Drift said. As Ratchet had predicted, he went over to the stand with the incense to retrieve the crystals there. He brought them back to the berth — where Ratchet had chosen to sit — and spread them out between them. 

There were five of them, ranging in color from a dark purple that was almost black, to a bright, almost clear gold. “What are they made of?” Just looking at them, Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure. Crystals weren’t exactly his strong suit; he didn’t know anything about ones that didn’t have medical applications.

“Charoite,” Drift picked up the darkest one and put it closer to Ratchet, “and amethyst,” he named the other purple one. “Yellow quartz,” he indicated the gold stone, then the orange one, “Zincite. And kunzite,” the last, pink one.

Some of those were pretty hard to come by, especially in large, clear pieces like these, but Ratchet knew their value to Drift wasn’t in their physical worth. He couldn’t believe what he was about to ask, but, “They each mean different things, I take it?”

Drift gave him a look like he didn’t quite believe Ratchet  _ had _ asked that. “They’re each associated both with one of the gods and with a part of a Cybertronian body — our chakral centers. Mortilus with the fuel tank,” charoite, “Adaptus — transformation cog,” amethyst, “Solomus — engine,” zincite, “Primus — spark,” the yellow quartz, “and Epistemus with the brain module,” was the kunzite. “On most frametypes, these fall in a rough line running from head to pelvis, creating the chakral line that corresponds with the associated spinal port. The chakras are where the aura is generated.”

That was easy enough to follow, even if it sounded like a load of spiritual scrap to Ratchet. “How do they help with meditation then? You use them to, to,” he gestured vaguely between the crystals and Drift, “balance out your ‘aura’ so you can focus?”

“Other way around,” Drift corrected gently, but not without an amused flicker at Ratchet even  _ trying  _ to talk seriously about the subject. “You focus on the crystals and align the chakras to their resonance to clear spiritual pathways and balance the aura.” He stroked the yellow quartz, then tilted his head to look at Ratchet. “You’re not really interested in meditation techniques, though. Your  _ aura _ gives it away,” he said pointedly before Ratchet could protest that he really did care about the crystals (he didn’t, but he cared about Drift and this whatever-it-was blooming between them, and he cared that it had obviously been difficult for Drift to invite him to his room). “Meditation has proven medical benefits though, so maybe you shouldn’t scoff as hard.”

Drift’s voice, along with the deliberate caress of  _ teasing affection _ with his field, invited Ratchet to participate in their usual, well-worn argument rather than reprimanding him for his disinterest, and Ratchet took him up on it. “Meditation has  _ arguable  _ medical benefits,” he countered, much more comfortable with this conversation than his fumbling attempts at being sensitive. “I’ve seen studies that credit meditation with helping patients with any number of ailments, but they aren’t conclusive in my book.”

“Even you can’t argue that meditation increases relaxation, mental awareness, healthier lifestyle choices, and general happiness,” came Drift’s rebuttal as he gathered up the crystals. “All things that increase overall wellbeing.”

Well, if Drift wasn’t going to argue that meditation was a  _ miracle cure-all, _ Ratchet would have to take a different approach. “But it’s not always a feasible option, is it? It’s not  _ reliable,”   _ which was why those studies hadn’t been enough to convince Ratchet. “Not everyone has the time or the ability to get anything from meditating, unless you count frustration. And even you said you have trouble with it — that whatever you’re supposed to be able to do with the crystals wasn’t something you were very good at.”

“Chakra crystals aren’t the only possible foci, even in Spectralism,” Drift said. He took the crystals back to the table and put them back in their display. “I used prayer foils, mostly. And now I’m much better at more traditional methods — concentration and katas.” 

“Doesn’t change that it takes a lot of time. I’m not about to prescribe something that takes vorns to master when I can’t even get my patients to stop engaging in sparring matches to the death or to lay off the highgrade for more than a few decacycles.” 

Drift came back to the berth and almost shyly put his hand on Ratchet’s knee. When Ratchet didn’t object to his touch he took that as permission to move in and insistently cuddle. “I won’t argue against the medical benefits of  _ those,” _ he chuckled, then sighed, seemingly content to drop the argument in favor of nestling himself in Ratchet’s arms.

See, now this. This was a much better way to relax than meditating on crystals and auras and all that slag. Ratchet shifted so Drift could settle in that much closer, enjoying the blended scents of oil and incense on his plating. “Good, because I don’t want to argue with you right now.”

“Mmmm,” Drift hummed his agreement. “So what  _ do _ you want?”

“Besides this?” Cuddling really was nice, and Ratchet wasn’t about to complain, but, “You still haven’t made my sirens go off.”

“Well,” Drift murmured, twisting in Ratchet’s grip to gently push him back onto the berth. He straddled Ratchet’s hips in a repeat of their first liaison that made the medic feel a little breathless and dizzy with its suddenness. And this time he didn’t even have overcharged systems to blame! “Let’s see if we can change that. If I remember correctly…” He caressed down Ratchet’s shoulder, towards his wrist. “Hands were a pretty touchy spot.” He drew red fingers up to his mouth to nibble on them.

Ratchet couldn’t help but hiss. “O-only because they’re new,” he said, unexpectedly stammering.

“Oh?” Drift hummed in a voice that went straight to the panels on Ratchet’s spine and made a few of them ping for permission to open. “Should take advantage of their sensitivity while it lasts then.”

“I’d say I feel taken advantage  _ of! _ Only,” Ratchet used their position to trace the transformation seams in Drift’s waist with his free hand, teasing along the edges, “as the one to bring it up, I think I forfeit the right.”

“I think you do too.” Drift’s engine hitched promisingly, but then he gently grabbed Ratchet’s hand and stilled it, holding it flat against his plating. Ratchet didn’t fight it, and Drift smiled, letting go in favor of focusing on Ratchet’s other hand, the one he was licking his way down to—

Ratchet saw a few stars when he bit the edge of the cover protecting his cords. “You know, I was pretty take it or leave it with the fangs at first,” he huffed, trying to regulate his venting, “but I’m beginning to change my mind.”

“Hmm…?” Drift’s field flickered with muted  _ curiosity, _ but he didn’t stop to ask beyond the inquisitive noise. Ratchet’s wrist panel was opening and he was busy teasing the cords inside with his tongue and furtive touches of his fingers. “Come on out…” He blew a breath of engine-heated air over the twitching prongs.

He didn’t have to ask twice. Pit, he barely needed to ask once! Ratchet was more than happy to let him have his cords to play with, and willing to just soak up the pleasure rather than try to reciprocate again right now. Drift wanted to focus on him right now? Fine.  _ More  _ than fine.

Drift drew the cords out slowly, caressing them as though they were fragile and precious. They twitched randomly in the air, the sheath of thin myomer filaments too flimsy and uncoordinated to give them any sort of direction or intent. Just the ability to blindly search for a way to complete the circuit to get electricity flowing through them. Ratchet’s engine whined as Drift  _ played _ with those fragile connectors. 

“Not… not going to be enough to get my sirens going without plugging in,” Ratchet managed between gasps, anticipation building in his field.

“Am I to take that to mean you’re in a hurry?” Drift purred back, and Ratchet felt two of his spinal panels slide open. Neither of them could reach them, of course, in their current positions, but Ratchet could get some stimulation on the ports sheltered beneath by squirming on the berth.

Despite his teasing words, Drift didn’t keep Ratchet waiting long; he guided his hand up to his shoulder and helped one, then two, of the plugs find their proper places. The prongs slipped in with an inaudible  _ click _ that Ratchet  _ felt _ more than anything else. 

The circuit completed. Drift had already lowered some of his firewalls, letting Ratchet into his mind, but instead of revelling in the medic’s offered pleasure, he took it and shunted it into a feedback loop that, this time, Ratchet couldn’t fight.

“So where else do you want me to touch?” Drift crooned, and automatically Ratchet offered up files, memories for his lover to stroke and fondle with a phantom touch, to peruse at his leisure. 

“Where should I touch you?” Ratchet asked, hands grasping more for something to hold on to than anything else. He couldn’t manage very coordinated touching right now, not with so much sensory data streaming through his processor.

“You can hang on where you are,” Drift answered without offering up a memory of arousal or a direction on how to please him. Nothing to tell Ratchet where to hold on — where Drift would  _ enjoy _ being held onto. There was something off about that… but the thought shattered before it could fully form in Ratchet’s processor. Drift’s hands were wandering, following the pathways set down by previous lovers, self explorations, and half-formed medical data on how repairs and rebuilds would affect Ratchet’s sensitivity. Amplified by their connection, the deliberate feedback loop Drift had turned their connection into, Ratchet really couldn’t do anything but hang on to Drift’s shoulder and hip, where his hands happened to be.

It wasn’t as swiftly overwhelming as their last hookup — whatever program Drift had been running then had been designed to go from zero to overload in as little time as possible, and he wasn’t running it now. This time the build up was gradual enough that Ratchet could track his shrinking capacity for anything other than the data looping between them and firing through his circuits. It could have been frightening; it was wonderful. A release, even before the actual overload itself hit.

The sparks, the  _ current, _ Ratchet could feel singing through his systems crested. Drift teased with holding the overload back, keeping the breakers from flipping… for just… a… moment…  _ longer… _

It paid off. As everything looked for a way to overflow, Ratchet’s sirens did indeed go off with a loud  _ wooop! _

Ratchet wasn’t some newbuild to fall unconscious when he didn’t start out overcharged. That didn’t mean he was fully cogent while Drift crooned out endearments, carefully prying up Ratchet’s fingers and skillfully pushing all his thought-threads back into his own processor. The last fleeting bit of Drift’s data that Ratchet caught before he gently unplugged Ratchet’s cords was unbearably  _ smug. _

_ Brat,  _ Ratchet thought affectionately, but Drift couldn’t hear it. He’d have to repeat it once his vocalizer was back online. Until then, he let his field do the talking:  _ affection/appreciation/contentment. _

“Good,” Drift answered the silent statement. He ran his fingers through the air above Ratchet’s plating, didn’t make Ratchet feel  _ anything  _ and was about to say so, but Drift just chuckled and climbed off. 

Ratchet noticed the stronger scent of Drift lighting a new stick of incense even in the thoroughly permeated room. He came back with a damp rag and started to wipe down Ratchet’s cords. The first went into the recharge plug on the berth, but he coiled the others carefully back into their place in Ratchet’s wrist.

“You did that last time too,” Ratchet noted, not resisting as Drift manipulated his frame. “What’s that about?”

“I don’t want to leave you messy,” Drift said. He finished and climbed up onto the berth to burrow back into Ratchet’s arms. “And this is nice.”

“It is.” Nicer than Ratchet had expected. Nicer than he’d remembered. He hadn’t shared a berth with anyone in so long he’d forgotten what a difference having someone else right there made. “But I’d like to make it even better for you, one of these times.”

Inexplicably, Drift stiffened, then very deliberately relaxed — so quickly Ratchet could immediately see it was false. “You really don’t have to worry about that. I’m enjoying this as it is.” He pulled Ratchet’s arms to tighten the hug. “This is what I want.”

“Then this is what we’ll do right now.” Ratchet could do hugs. He cradled Drift in his arms, protective and secure. “What about in the future though?”

“What about it? I have shift in a bit,” Drift sounded a little uncertain, “but I don’t think that’s what you’re talking about. You can stay though; I’m not going to kick you out right as you get into recharge.”

“Considerate of you,” Ratchet said with a teasing lilt before adding, more seriously, “I just want some idea what to expect. Whatever this is, wherever it’s going, I don’t want it to be one sided.” And nice as cuddling was, it felt one sided to Ratchet that he was the only one who’d gotten to overload. Once was coincidence and too much highgrade, twice was a quickie between shifts, but three times was definitely a pattern.

Drift went silent. Ratchet felt the rhythm of his frame as he vented in and out, his engine idling quietly. 

“This is what I want?” 

He sounded slightly confused, which only confused Ratchet. “Do you not enjoy overloading?” Not all mechs did, though it had been a long time since Ratchet had encountered anyone like that. It was pretty rare. “I like giving as much as getting, and you’ve given me three without me having a chance to return the favor, but if it’s not something you want…”

“I don’t,” Drift said, and this time his relief and relaxation was genuine. “I mean, I do enjoy pleasing. You, at least. But I don’t enjoy overloading. I  _ can,” _ he insisted defensively. “If I’m… touched, right. There’s nothing wrong with me, physically. I just, don’t like it.”

“If this is where you start worrying that I’m going to try to ‘fix’ you,” especially since he was a medic, “don’t,” Ratchet said firmly. Not all of his old colleagues agreed that mechs who didn’t like interfacing didn’t need to be fixed, but they weren’t here, and Ratchet believed a mech had a choice about how he used his frame. “I’m not even going to ask for a reason, unless you feel like sharing one. Just let me know what you do want from me, besides cuddling.”

“What?” Drift scoffed lightly. “Like fuel or favors or protection? No offense, Ratchet, but you’re not really in a position to offer me those on this ship — not more than I can get on my own.  _ This,” _ he tightened Ratchet’s grip on him again briefly to make his point, “is what I want.”

Not what Ratchet had meant, but good to know. “I was thinking more along the lines of a massage,” he said wryly. “Something that’d still let me get my hands on you without being something you’re not interested in.”

Drift stiffened again. This time he started wiggling free; Ratchet let him go. “I don’t think so. I’m not really interested in doing anything kinky.” Ratchet wasn’t sure what those two statements had to do with each other, but Drift didn’t give him a chance to ask. “I’ve got to get to my shift. You can stay here,” he rushed to assure Ratchet as he scooped up his swords, heading to the door before even pulling them on.

He paused before opening it, though. “I’ll see you when I’m off duty?”

That, at least, had Ratchet less worried he’d somehow offended or chased Drift off. “See you then,” he confirmed. They could talk more later. Much later, even. Ratchet was in no hurry, if hurrying had the potential to mess things up. Knowing that Drift wasn’t hurting for overloads was enough for now. “Good luck.”

Drift smiled back, a genuine, happy-looking smile at odds with how he was practically running from the room. “Thanks.” 

He was still pulling on his swords as the door slid closed behind him.

Ratchet waited a few seconds before letting himself fall back against the berth with a forceful sigh. This was turning out pretty nice, all things considered. He’d really like it if it could  _ not  _ blow up in their faces.

.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

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.

.

Recharge when you can, top off your power when you can; the war had taught those lessons to every one of its survivors, and Ratchet was no exception. Luckily, in this case, as otherwise he might have fretted himself into not-resting. Drift was still planning on getting together with him when they were both off-shift again, and that was enough to let Ratchet cycle down and rest.

See? He wasn’t  _ worried! _

The fresh incense Drift had lit burned down and the scent softened, lingered and mingled with the older, more pervasive scent in Drift’s quarters. It was… soothing. Ratchet relaxed so completely that it wasn’t until he woke up that he realized he’d never passed off the proposed medical oversight of Swerve’s to Drift before being distracted. He felt he could be forgiven for that, though. Drift was highly distracting, and they hadn’t had a ton of time together, but it was something he would need to rectify. 

Walking into the medbay to start his next shift revealed a new selection of patients. Ambulon had assembled the previous mech’s leg and, according to the report, reattached it with First Aid’s help when the latter had come in to start his shift. After a short stay to make sure it was integrating and prove it was working properly, First Aid had discharged him to go rest in his own quarters. So he was gone, but there were two more mechs with engine coughs in the ISO room. Apparently it  _ was _ contagious, and patient zero hadn’t come in fast enough to keep it from spreading. Ratchet added drafting a memo about the minor illness to the entire command and medical staffs to his to-do list and dismissed First Aid.

As much as Ratchet would have liked to see Drift come slinking into the medbay to escape his duties for a few kliks again, he knew it wasn’t going to happen. Not when he was on the bridge instead of troubleshooting. 

Settling in to work, Ratchet decided to take care of the memo about the engine cough right off the bat, even if it was only a minor ailment. In the close confines of a ship like this, it was pretty much inevitable that everyone would come down with it, so command needed to know about it.

Ratchet had only just finished that and begun drafting a message to Drift containing the proposal for Swerve’s so he could review it in between crises on the bridge when Ultra Magnus responded, wanting to know what precautions the crew should take against the cough. Ratchet responded with a curt, rote recitation of basic mechanical hygiene — use the washracks regularly, avoid contact with affected individuals,  _ come to the medbay if you have symptoms! _ — with the note that it was still pretty much inevitable that everyone would catch it, but symptoms were minor and would blow over after a couple cycles of bedrest.

He’d just hit “send” for both that message (cc’d to all three bridge officers) and the one to just Drift when his first patient walked in.

If Ratchet’s previous two cycles had been quiet, this one was making up for it. He refused to give Drift the satisfaction of thinking the word “karma”, but by the time Ambulon came in to take over, Ratchet had treated over a dozen mechs for bumps, dents, and other minor issues, and three  _ more _ mechs were in ISO with that engine cough. Enough for Smokescreen to start a game of Three Predacon Ante in there, but not before Ratchet had managed to quiz him on the odds being given on the First Aid/Whirl and Drift/Ratchet betting pools.

He wasn’t surprised to find the best odds on the first were on Whirl getting bored after only a few cycles. His mood soured when he found out the odds of Drift and himself having a fight and never speaking to each other again were higher than on them lasting more than a decacycle. They weren’t having a fight right now! He was  _ not. Worried! _

He was happy for Ambulon to interrupt  _ that _ brewing sulk. Ratchet gave him all the records on their new patients, briefed him on their conditions, made sure he’d gotten the memo about their engine-cough epidemic, and went to leave. He checked his chronometer on his way out and paused. There was still a little time — maybe a joor — before Drift would be off the bridge, and Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted to be overcharged before they even saw each other. No matter how much he’d like a drink…

And Drift’s confusing words had been nagging him all day. He still had no idea what the offer of a massage had to do with “kinky stuff”, and the only thing he could think of was, “Are—  _ were _ massages considered kinky among Decepticons?” he blurted out, surprising Ambulon with the question.

Instantly the other medic looked uncomfortable. “Not really,” he answered anyway, with a grimace. It couldn’t have been hard for him to figure out just why — or more specifically  _ who _ — Ratchet was asking about. “They weren’t all that common, that I know of. Not violent enough.” He steeled himself. “Why? What’s he want you to do in return? Dea— he,” Ambulon stepped closer and lowered his voice, even though none of the current patients could (probably) hear them. “You can refuse. That’s an Autobot thing, right? You can refuse and security’ll help, even if he’s already given you his half of the trade.”

“Trade?” What did interfacing have to do with making a trade? Or with  _ security,  _ of all things? “He doesn’t want me to do anything. I’m the one wanted to do something, but I didn’t think giving a massage was all that kinky.” Particularly when the entire idea was that it wouldn’t even be erotic. 

Ambulon stopped, blinked, and visibly reassessed. He worried at a flake of paint coming off his arm with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m getting involved with this; I swear I don’t have a deathwish,” he muttered almost too quietly for Ratchet to hear before looking back up. “Maybe we should move to a consult room?”

The  _ Lost Light _ only had one consult room, where mechs could discuss sensitive issues with a medic, or for private exams. Ratchet decided this qualified, if it would make Ambulon more comfortable. He didn’t feel awkward talking about it himself, but it would be more courteous to Drift to take the conversation behind closed doors. Drift hadn’t given him permission to talk about intimate details with any and everyone who happened to overhear something, unlikely as that was at the moment. “Sure,” Ratchet said, heading towards the room. 

Ambulon followed after him, like this was any other consult. The door slid closed behind them, engulfing them in sudden quiet after the general background hum of medbay equipment and recovering patients. If something happened, even if someone just walked in the main doors, they’d be notified, of course, but it was otherwise private. If small. Consult rooms hadn’t exactly been a priority when designing Autobot medbays in… ever, really.

Even in private, Ambulon seemed reluctant to broach the topic, preferring to fidget and pick at the growing patch of flaked off paint. Ratchet sighed and took the initiative. “I appreciate you ‘getting involved’,” he began, “since I’m clearly not understanding something here, and I’d rather not make a mess of things stumbling around blindly.”

“Sorry,” Ambulon muttered. “If there was one thing I thought I’d never have to deal with as an Autobot, it’s Decepticon interfacing politics. And it’s  _ Deadlock.” _ He shuddered slightly. “You’re a good boss. I don’t want you to get hurt, and…  _ stumbling around blindly, _ as you put it, will probably get you killed. Want to tell me,” the words sounded like they were being dragged out of him, “what happened?”

Killed? Really? Ratchet decided to chalk that one up to Ambulon’s paranoia. Drift wouldn’t  _ kill  _ him over a misunderstanding, even if they did wind up having a fight over it. Which they weren’t having now. He wasn’t worried. “I wanted to touch him, but he didn’t want to overload, so I suggested a massage. He said he wasn’t interested in anything kinky, but I fail to see how any of that is kinky.”

“Okay…” Ambulon calmed somewhat. “Probably not going to kill you for that, no. What’d you want in exchange?”

“Nothing. If anything, I’m the one trying to offer something in exchange.” Was interfacing among Decepticons really that much more transactional than it was for Autobots? But if that was the case, Drift should have been unhappy with Ratchet getting all the overloads and him getting nothing in return. “I don’t like feeling like my partner’s doing all the work.”

The other mech shrugged; Ratchet knew better than to mistake that for nonchalance. “I’m just saying what it sounds like to me: you and…  _ he _ had an arrangement. Not asking what that was! But then you offered something in addition, without specifying what you wanted in return, so he refused. Politely, it sounds like.”

“Perfectly politely,” Ratchet said absently, busy thinking back over his conversation with Drift. “Does cuddling actually count as an exchange for an overload?” he asked. Weird as that sounded to him, it was what Drift had said he’d wanted… 

“Between grunts or other equals, absolutely,” Ambulon responded. “Deadlock was—  _ is _ an officer though, and I’ve never heard of an officer asking for something that… tame. Actually, I’ve never heard of  _ Deadlock _ wanting anything but fuel.” He shivered.

“He said I couldn’t get him any more of that than he could on his own.” Maybe they weren’t grunts, but they were still equals. Drift wasn’t wrong about Ratchet not being able to offer anything in the way of fuel or favors than he couldn’t authorize himself, or pester Rodimus into granting him more successfully than Ratchet could, but Ratchet was an officer too. “Frankly, I don’t think anyone wanting affection is something to look down on them for,” and it was both a shame and explained a lot that Decepticons did, “but it is pretty tame in comparison to what he was doing for me. Which is why I was trying to offer something more.”

“No one claimed it was fair,” Ambulon pointed out a little ruthlessly. “First Aid and Pharma had to sit me down and explain I was allowed to get security involved if needed to the first time I had a fling on this side of things.”

“I’m glad they did,” Ratchet said genuinely, not offended. If anything, he was feeling a little annoyed at Drift’s commanders in the Wreckers. Had they explained anything to him? Or was this exchange mentality just symptomatic of long-time habit? “I suppose I’ll have to ask Drift what he considers fair trade.” At least now he had a better idea what to ask and how to phrase his questions!

“I really cannot believe I’m saying this, but… I,” Ambulon grimaced a bit, “hope things work out. Be careful.”

“Of course I will!” Ratchet suspected Ambulon still meant physically while he was more worried about emotional hurt, but he appreciated the sentiment. And the help. “I’ll try not to bring it up around you too much, but thank you for being willing to help me out.”

“Don’t mention it… to him especially.” It could have been a joke, but again Ratchet suspected it wasn’t meant as one. “You’re a good boss and I’d like to keep you for a while. And,” he added in a mutter, “keep not having to boobytrap my door.”

“Noted,” Ratchet said with a hint of a smile. “I’ll be on my way then. If you get inundated with patients coming in with that engine cough, we may have to consider isolating people in their own habsuites.” ISO was only so big, after all.

“Will do.” Ambulon reached back to the touch pad to open the door. “I looked up the codes for that as soon as I got your memo.”

“Smart mech.” Ratchet waved over his shoulder. “See you later.” Now he just needed to figure out what to do until Drift was available. He thought again about going to Swerve’s but decided against the idea of having the conversation they needed to have in such a public space. By the same token, Ratchet was pretty sure neutral territory was a better idea than either of their quarters, at least until they got things straightened out. Maybe he’d been reading things wrong and Drift just thought of this as a means to an end, but no;  _ Drift _ had been the one to ask about public affection. All the little romantic gestures… Ratchet was sure Drift wanted a relationship (not  _ just _ a convenient trade). Affection and romantic gestures and inviting Ratchet to his quarters… He just was going about the interfacing aspect of it differently than Ratchet was used to.

He collected a heating blanket from one of the medbay cabinets, then sent a low-priority ping to Drift to meet him in the forward observation deck. It was a favored spot for mechs looking for peace and quiet on a chaotic ship, but Ratchet glared at the room’s single occupant until he vacated with a nervous look, then spread the blanket out on the ground to wait.

He had to glare two more mechs out before the mech Ratchet  _ wanted _ to join him did so.

“Hey.” Drift hesitated before coming to sit seiza style on the blanket next to Ratchet. “I’m told I should probably apologize. I should have stayed to finish hearing what you had to say. Storming out was rude.”

“I was more confused than offended,” Ratchet said, accepting the apology anyway, “but thank you.” He wondered who had given Drift that advice, but it wasn’t important enough to ask now. “It’s probably just as well though, since what I would have said probably would have just confused the issue more. I think we’re approaching the idea of interfacing slightly differently.”

Drift tilted his head. “Yeah? I’m listening.” 

“Realizing the irony of this, since I was trying to find something more I could do for you so things would feel a little more equal,” Ratchet said with a soft chuckle. “I’m thinking you’re used to looking at interfacing as a clear-cut exchange where things are laid out explicitly.”

“Yeah. We didn’t exactly say as much that first night, but when you let me stay and agreed to hold me afterwards, I thought we understood each other.” He looked down. “Obviously we didn’t.”

“Maybe not, but now we know where the disconnect is and have a chance to sort it out. Assuming talking isn’t taboo, anyway. I want to find a way to make this work for both of us, not sulk or fight over it.”

Drift smiled. “Me too. I like you, Ratchet. Not just as a frag; I like spending time with you.”

“I’m not exactly easy to be around.”

The other mech scoffed. “You say that like I didn’t know you before interfacing was on the table.”

“I just thought you deserved a fair warning,” Ratchet laughed. “I like spending time with you too, by the way. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“It’s nice to hear,” Drift chuckled. “While we’re on the topic fair warnings… I’m still Deadlock. I’m not… really proud of that. But in a lot of ways, that’s still me. Not a lot’s changed.” He looked down again. “I think this episode made it pretty clear not  _ enough _ has changed.”

“Change takes time. Give yourself a bit more of it before you go downplaying your achievements.” It hadn’t been all that long ago that Deadlock had ranked among Megatron’s elite warriors. “That said, I was making assumptions without considering your experiences or how they might affect things. So let’s see if we can untangle this.”

“I’d like that.”

“Then the first thing I want to ask is, what sort of things count as equivalent? Because I wasn’t imagining cuddling as enough to return for interfacing.” And Ambulon hadn’t either, but Ratchet wasn’t going to bring him up if he could help it. “Is that really enough for you?”

Drift was silent for a moment. “It kind of depends on a lot of things, I guess. Rank — relative rank — has a lot to do with it, and I guess my choice not to overload can make small things seem bigger, but…” He shrugged. “It’s what I wanted. That’s what makes it enough. I used to trade protection for spending a night with me, sometimes just to hold them; as far as I know, those mechs were perfectly happy to let others make assumptions about what I made them do.” He grinned a little crookedly. “Part of getting ‘protection’ is being able to lean on someone else’s scary rep, so they didn’t really want to say anything that made me seem less scary.”

“I suppose that would have been counterproductive, yes.” Ratchet could see the logic in that. He could also see the logic in Drift being the one to decide what activities were worth exchanging for others; it meant Decepticons didn’t have any specific rules, beyond deciding on an individual basis if what you wanted (like protection) was worth what was being asked. “If the cuddling and the fragging effectively ‘pay’,” he didn’t like the word, it made the whole thing seem like prostitution, but he couldn’t think of a better one, “for each other then, when I offered something else, you assumed I was asking for something else as well?”

“Yeah. The way you’re asking now, it sounds a bit like you weren’t, which,” Drift admitted, “is a little difficult for me to wrap my head around.” He reached out, paused, then completed the motion to hold Ratchet’s hand. Ratchet squeezed his fingers gently. 

“I wasn’t, no. I was enjoying the cuddling too, and was viewing that as a mutual activity. I just wanted to do something more for you, not maneuver you into owing me anything.”

Drift sat in silence for several long moments. It wasn’t a relaxed silence, but he rubbed his thumb across Ratchet’s fingers absently as he thought, reordering who knew how many centuries of habit and thought. “We could try,” he said eventually, giving Ratchet a crooked grin. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a medic working me over.”

“Oh, I can work you over,” Ratchet chuckled at the innuendo, but he reined back the _lust_ in his field in favor of _reassurance_ at the shadowed look in Drift’s optics _._ Flirting aside, lust probably wouldn’t be very productive here. “But I won’t do more than you’re comfortable with. I can enjoy exploring your frame and indulging in touch without it leading to an overload. Massage, polishing… plenty of things.”

“I’m not good at massage, but I can paint and polish decently well,” Drift offered, “if that’s something you’re interested in.”

“You did do a great job on my hands.” Ratchet wouldn’t mind letting Drift polish him in exchange for a massage, if that made things settle easier in his processor. It would still make him feel better about Drift doing everything and not letting him reciprocate when they interfaced. “I’m willing to try that as a trade.”

That lifted the shadows from Drift’s expression. “Tonight then? I’ve been looking forward to spending our off-shift together again.”

“So have I. And now,” Ratchet laced their fingers together, “we have a plan.”

Not  _ here _ though. They agreed to split up and meet again in Drift’s habsuite (it was bigger than Ratchet’s), since Ratchet had to detour to the medbay to put the heating tarp away and retrieve some supplies. Drift said he already had polish, but Ratchet needed to pick up some paint in his own colors in case they needed to do some touch ups. It didn’t take long, and Ratchet’s steps were light as they carried him to Drift’s door.

He pinged for entrance.

This time Drift answered immediately with a smile. He’d already set aside his swords and was much less nervous about letting Ratchet into his personal space. “Hey. Come in.” The berth was already moved away from the wall to make both massage and polishing easier. An extension cord connected it to the wall, and the ship’s main power, in case they fell asleep before moving it back. There was a locked footlocker where the berth  _ had _ been, usually hidden under it. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Anywhere?” Ratchet took in the space, trying to figure out the best way to do this.

“Dunno. How badly do you want to ‘get your hands on me’?” Drift grinned. He sat on the edge of the berth and patted the metal next to him in invitation.

“Badly enough that I’m going to insist on going first,” Ratchet said, but he joined Drift without immediately trying to get things started. “Any areas you want to tell me in advance to avoid?”

“Throat, wrist… anyplace where the fuel lines are accessible,” Drift answered after a moment.

“I can do that. I’m not going to linger on any port covers either,” Ratchet promised, then asked, “Medically, are there any joints or cables that give you more trouble than others?” Massage could help with sensitivities and even injuries of that nature, but it could also make them worse if the masseuse didn’t know about them.

Drift’s mouth opened to answer, then he stopped, closed it, and looked away. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I could name a dozen injuries easy that would cause those sort of issues but they aren’t really… relevant, anymore. It’s been a long time since anyone’s offered to do this for me.”

Ah, Ratchet realized. The rebuild. Drift’s encounter with the Circle of Light hadn’t been all that long ago in the grand scheme of things. “I’ll go slowly then, so you can let me know if anything protests.”

“I will. How,” Drift leered, “do you want me?”

“To start with? On your back,” Ratchet grinned, then reached up to push Drift down to lie on the berth. Drift resisted being pushed just long enough to make a point, then flopped down on the berth with a  _ clang! _ “Such grace.” He didn’t straddle him though, as Drift had done with him. He was going to need to be able to move around the berth to reach different parts of his frame. “Arms at your sides,” he said, positioning himself so he could start on Drift’s left foot. Extremities tended to take a beating that mechs didn’t even think about, and it was also better to ease into things with someone who (probably) had control issues. Ratchet had a feeling Drift didn’t often let himself feel vulnerable.

He took Drift’s foot in both of his hands, running his thumbs over the rubberized tread on the bottom. Huh. Interesting. A lot of mechs didn’t bother with that, but it helped explain how Drift could be so fragging  _ silent _ when he wanted to. It definitely contributed to his surefootedness. A slow, thorough exploration proved the tread to be in good condition, which was a nice discovery. That was the kind of thing that could suffer quickly if a mech had degraded or overworked self-repair, and often went unnoticed. Nice to see that Drift was as healthy as he seemed.

The actuators in his ankle and lower leg were in equally good shape. Ratchet was careful as he moved them to watch for any signs of discomfort in Drift’s face or field.

If his slagging  _ aura  _ had anything to say about it, Ratchet certainly didn’t hear it.

“Heard Smokescreen was in medbay,” Drift piped up as Ratchet had moved on to his lower leg, checking the armor and carefully stretching the myomer protoform beneath. “What are the odds on those betting pools I don’t know about?” 

Incorrigible gossip! 

“If you don’t know about them,” Ratchet said amusedly, not looking up at the grin he just  _ knew _ Drift was wearing right now, “then there’s nothing for me to tell you, though some people  _ may  _ be disappointed we worked out our first hurdle.”

“Such a shame,” Drift crooned with mock sympathy. The frame in Ratchet’s hands relaxed further, even as it shook with Drift’s chuckle. “What about the one for Whirl and First Aid? You already place your bet, or do you want an insider tip?”

“I’m not betting. That would be a violation of regulations.” Also, he hadn’t decided where he wanted to put his money. “What tip?”

Drift’s field was all sorts of  _ smug _ and  _ knowing. _ “Whirl has never  _ once _ been the one to end a fling.”

“Really?” That made betting on some of the less favorable odds look more promising. “Not the track record I’d have pictured for him.” But Drift had been a Wrecker, just like Whirl. Not as long as Whirl had been, but still… He’d know better than anyone else on the ship. Ratchet wasn’t above using insider info if it made him money.

“Oh, he’s still Whirl.” Drift’s engine purred at Ratchet’s ministrations. As instructed, Ratchet avoided the spot where the leg armor met his pelvic span where some of the major energon lines were potentially vulnerable, but Drift arched almost insistently into Ratchet’s hands when he started soothing away the aches in his abdomen. “Loud, obnoxious… practically allergic to anything resembling actual romance. But he doesn’t get bored with people. That doesn’t mean his relationships generally last long; his flings generally get fed up with him pretty quick. So if you’re going to bet, and I’m not saying you  _ are _ ,” except he totally  _ was, _ “but  _ if  _ you are, bet on First Aid’s patience, not Whirl’s supposed lack of commitment.”

“They’ll probably be together for a while then. First Aid won’t lose patience until the allure of Whirl being an ex-Wrecker wears off.” 

In other words, never.

There wasn’t much Ratchet could do with the flat, immovable armor over Drift’s chest, so he moved up to his shoulders, beginning again on the left. “You really do have great range of motion here.”

“Yeah? I knew it was better in this frame,” Drift craned his neck to look, “but I wasn’t sure whether to attribute that to a lack of injuries or all new parts.”

“Without knowing your previous frame that well, I’d guess both.” Rebuilds really were better than repairs in some respects, and overcoming old injuries was one of them. Add to that that Drift’s current frame almost seemed to have been designed with his use of swords in mind… “This level of flexibility can work against you if you’re not careful, though. It puts more strain on the tensors and cables when the joint doesn’t have a hard stop built in. You wind up sacrificing power for speed.”

Drift’s mood soured. “Well, that’s familiar at least.”  _ Violence _ bubbled up at the edges of his field, but Drift flopped his head back and turned off his optics before it could spread. This time, as close as he was, Ratchet could feel the controlled vent-cycles of the brief meditation. To calm himself. His optics turned back on, glowing their cheerful blue, and he smiled. “I’ve always been faster than I was strong.”

“Not everyone can be built for strength,” Ratchet said evenly, biting back other, more personal questions. But he couldn’t help but wonder: what did Drift think of this frame? Was he happy with it? Comfortable in it? For all their benefits, full or nearly-full rebuilds could be difficult to adjust to, could take a long, long time to settle completely, and Drift had already admitted to not knowing things about himself that most mechs would consider a matter of course. “I definitely appreciated that speed on Delphi.” 

He hissed as Ratchet skipped over his wrist and moved onto massaging the complex mechanisms of his hand. “No. It feels good. Don’t stop,” he said before Ratchet could ask.

“Found a good spot?” Ratchet smiled and, one by one, went over every single nook and crevice from the palm of Drift’s hands up through the tips of his fingers. Drift made a sound somewhere between a groan and a purr.

“Feels tingly.”

“Tingly is good.” Tingly was worth doing one more pass over the hand in his, not setting it down until there was no resistance left in it at all. “I’m going to work my way down to the other one now,” he said softly, manipulating Drift’s right shoulder. “Relax.”

“…’Kay.” Drift certainly sounded relaxed. Ratchet did everything he could to keep him that way, gently but firmly kneading cables and rotating joints and flexing armor seams all the way from shoulder to wrist — which he once again skipped, jumping over the potentially erogenous (or vulnerable, Ratchet wasn’t sure) zone to focus on Drift’s other palm.

Drift let out another groan/hiss of appreciation. This time Ratchet didn’t pause, even though it  _ sounded _ like a pained noise; everything else about him spoke of non-erotic pleasure. Drift’s engine idled comfortably and his vent-cycles slowed almost to the point of powersave. Maybe the hiss did indicate it hurt a bit, but sometimes releasing tension did that.

Ratchet switched to lighter, broader, more soothing strokes after going over Drift’s hand to really work out all of those tensions. “Still tingly?”

“Yea…”

Ratchet chuckled. Definitely relaxed. He lingered a moment longer on Drift’s fingers, then carefully arranged his arm back at his side before coming around to the head of the berth. Drift’s request to avoid his fuel lines meant he couldn’t really do anything with his neck, but he could still press his hands against a few different places on his helm. Touching helm kibble could be considered erotic, but Drift hadn’t told him to avoid it, so Ratchet went ahead with it. While helms were sturdy and generally solid, not offering much in the way of joints of cables that could build up tension, sometimes massaging decorative or sensor-bearing elements could be highly relaxing. Ratchet was careful to keep his touch firm and his field calm and nonsexual as he worked on the long finials and the crest that swept across the top.

As his hand touched the front of the crest, Drift deliberately bunted it gently.

“Enjoying yourself?” Ratchet asked, his own enjoyment reaching out in his field to brush against Drift intangibly. He was very, very glad Drift had agreed to this, and he petted his helm kibble tenderly. “If you’d like to keep going, I’m going to need you to roll over.”

It took two tries, but Drift managed to roll over and flop back down on the berth, engine purring loudly. Ratchet didn’t need any further encouragement to continue.

He didn’t spend as long on Drift’s arms this time, having gone over them so thoroughly on his way up his frame before, but he didn’t ignore them on the way back down. He simply put more effort into working out the bunched up cables beneath his shoulder blades and back armor, impressed that none of them were truly tangled into the kinds of knots some mechs were prone to. 

Drift’s covered spinal ports he avoided almost completely, except for the unavoidable brush once or twice as he repositioned his hands to press outward from Drift’s spine along his sides. Drift didn’t tense up at those touches, so Ratchet guessed he didn’t feel suspicious of his intentions on that score. 

Ratchet continued in the relaxed, companionable quiet until he made it all the way back to Drift’s feet. His hands, he was pleased to note, had held up well. They were warm from his exertions, yes, but not aching or freezing up the way his old ones would have done.

“You still awake?” he asked softly, hands resting on Drift’s calves.

“No,” Drift mumbled.

“Then I have succeeded.” It wouldn’t have been a very good massage if Drift had been ready to pop right up and start polishing him. 

Drift rolled onto his side and slowly lifted his arm in an invitation for Ratchet to join him on the berth. Ratchet did so readily, fitting himself alongside Drift so neither of them was in danger of falling off. Drift made a soft sound of contentment, curling himself as close to Ratchet’s frame as possible. His frame remained warm and relaxed and his engine idled comfortably. 

“Wake me up when you’re done napping,” Ratchet said, letting himself relax as well.

“‘Kay.”

It wasn’t Drift shaking him awake or crooning his name that brought Ratchet out of near-recharge sometime later, though. It was a strange point of pressure on one corner of his chest armor, near his windshield. It was like he was being poked with something sharp, but gently enough it didn’t hurt. It was just… strange and unexpected, and strange and unexpected was enough for war-honed survival protocols to wake him up to figure out what was going on.

Once his optics were on, it was quickly apparent what was happening: Drift was nibbling on his armor!

…Maybe Ambulon hadn’t been completely off the mark after all. 

Though, Drift wasn’t doing anything like honing in on the fuel lines, even though there was one within his easy reach; he was just biting the nearest piece of Ratchet’s armor. His optics were off and he was as close to recharge as Ratchet had been just a moment ago, so it was probable he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Feeling slightly torn between waking Drift to stop him and waiting to see what else he might try to do, Ratchet decided to go ahead and disturb him. “Drift?” He tapped a finger against the shoulder under his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Drift stopped and pulled away before his boot sequence finished and his optics lit up. “What am I doing what? Recharging…? O~or powersave, I guess. I’m not getting a notice that I’m plugged into the berth’s power; I guess we forgot to do that,” he sounded sheepish.

“Well, we were only napping.” Without plugging in they hadn’t been properly recharging, of course, but there were defrags and other processor functions that could run just as well in powersave, making it a useful activity. “And then you started biting me.”

Drift stiffened. “Did I… Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. A little curious though,” Ratchet admitted. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing?” Drift sounded more hopeful than sure though, and he drew away from Ratchet. After a moment of indecision he sat up. “I’ll get the polish.”

“Want to get me a better answer while you’re at it?” Because Ratchet didn’t believe for a second that it was “nothing”. “I’m not going to freak out and go running off down the hall, you know.”

With hunched shoulders Drift retrieved a bottle from the foot locker — smart of him to lock that away, really — “It really is nothing. Just a dream.”

How much should he press before backing off? Ratchet didn’t want to overstep, for all he wanted to know what Drift might have been fantasizing about. “Dreams can be good inspiration, if you ever feel like sharing,” he said. “At worst I’ll just say it’s not something I’m interested in trying out.”

“It’s not something I actually want,” Drift assured with a quickly concealed flicker of  _ shame _ through his EM field. “Just a dream.” He drew a chamois from his subspace pocket. “Where do you want me to start? I should wipe down your plating and check if you need any touch ups first.”

Ratchet decided to let it go this time. For now. At least until Drift had a dream like that again. “I can lay down so you can do front and back the same way I did you,” he offered.

“Sounds good.”

It was easier to get onto his back from his current position, so that was what Ratchet did. He turned his head toward Drift when he was ready. “Go ahead then. I can’t promise my paint is perfect, but it’s at least better than Ambulon’s.”

Drift chuckled, relaxing. “Much better.” He took the chamois and settled on the end of the berth, pulling one of Ratchet’s feet onto his lap as he did so. His touch was sure and firm as he gently wiped away the grime that always built up, going in tight, soothing circles. “This can take a while. I won’t be offended if you fall back into powersave.”

“I just might, nice as it feels.” Ratchet’s head fell back as he let himself just enjoy the sensual pleasure of the cloth and Drift’s hands.

“I’m not a professional,” Drift said, self-deprecating. 

He didn’t need to be a professional, as far as Ratchet was concerned. His hands were calm and steady and he was careful not to miss a single inch of Ratchet’s plating. It felt amazing, and it wasn’t long at all before the rhythm pulled Ratchet back into a restful powersave.

This time it wasn’t teeth on his armor that roused him, but a gentle shake of his shoulder. “Need me to roll over?” he mumbled without bothering to power up his optics.

“Only if you want your back to be as shiny as your front,” Drift teased.

“Shiny?” Now his optics came on, and Ratchet stared down at himself as he sat up. He was shiny alright; shiny enough he could see his own reflection (and Drift’s) in his windshield. “What the frag is this?”

“Clean up, touch up, polish,” Drift said with a flicker of  _ amused/affection. _ “I told you, you’re beautiful.”

“I don’t need to be  _ beautiful,  _ I need to be functional!” Ratchet stood up and held his arms out to stare at them. “How am I supposed to keep a finish like this from getting destroyed while I work?”

Drift drew back a little. “You’re… not?” he said, confused. “So what if it gets a little scratched? And you  _ are _ beautiful,” he added with a little bit of a pout. “Even when you’re all dirty. I just wanted to show it off a little.”

Ratchet let some of his ire go at that. It was clear Drift hadn’t done it to make fun of him. “It seems a lot of effort for something that won’t last, that’s all,” he said more calmly. “You really think it’s worth it?”

“I really do,” Drift said, dropping the pout and letting himself move back, closer to Ratchet. “The polish and effort are mine, and I know what your work days are like. I’m not going to get mad it doesn’t last.”

“Then I suppose I should let you finish so I match.” It was with actual willingness that Ratchet lay back down, arranging himself so Drift could reach the rest of his frame. “If you aren’t going to regret it, then neither will I.”

“I don’t,” Drift said firmly. He hopped back onto the berth next to Ratchet and ran his fingers over his shoulder a few times.  _ Admiration/affection _ gently twined with Ratchet’s EM field. “You’re beautiful and being a good doctor, being good at your job doesn’t negate that.”

Ratchet didn’t argue. It wasn’t that he believed his work negated physical attractiveness; he just wasn’t convinced he had any to begin with. If Drift looked at him and saw something he liked, well… Drift saw plenty of things that weren’t there, but Ratchet still hadn’t gotten anywhere with him on the subject of auras. One battle was enough for now.

“Pipes seems to have recovered well,” Drift said in an inviting tone as he started cleaning the back of Ratchet’s head with the chamois. “I heard he was bragging about his first adventure on an alien planet.”

“He really was excited to be on the team that went down to the surface.” It was both a shame and somewhat par for the course that the whole thing had gone so spectacularly wrong. Pipes had gotten a genuine experience out of it, and Ratchet wasn’t surprised he was talking about it. “I’m glad he survived it.”

“Yeah me too.” Drift chuckled. “The story keeps growing in the telling. I mean, that strain of rust was pretty bad as it was,” he shuddered slightly, but didn’t interrupt his minstrations, “but Pharma was apparently as big and powerful as Megatron and ate partially developed protoforms for breakfast.” He scoffed, and so did Ratchet.

“Ridiculous.” Not exactly surprising, but still ridiculous. “And I suppose the corpses in the morgue came to life by the hundreds and shambled after us the whole way as well?”

“How’d you guess?” Drift outright laughed. “And I  _ know _ it’s ridiculous. Even Megatron didn’t eat protoforms. Shockwave might’ve, but not Megatron.” He snickered, and moved on to Ratchet’s shoulders. “Your paint seems like it’s in better shape back here. I don’t need to do as many touch ups.”

“Less cause to get banged up back there,” Ratchet said. “Unruly patients generally only attack from the front.” Sometimes they were so unruly they could slam an unsuspecting medic back against a wall or other pieces of equipment, but it took a lot to catch Ratchet that off guard anymore. “There’s no point trying to stop him, though. With any luck at least  _ some  _ of the buffoons on this boat will be able to tell he’s exaggerating.”

“Well I know  _ you _ didn’t exaggerate anything after your first time on an alien world,” Drift teased back. “You were always jaded and cranky.”

“I was not!” Ratchet huffed, mock-affronted. “I was, and am, merely honest.”

“True. And I happen to  _ know _ there was a time when even the great Ratchet was young and idealistic.” Drift leaned in close, and Ratchet could practically hear him grinning. “And also cranky.”

“Bah.” He was right, but Ratchet didn’t have to admit it. “If I was ever idealistic, the war certainly saw to changing that.”

“Pretty sure it changed all of us.” Drift moved farther down, scrubbing Ratchet’s frame. It still felt wonderful, and this time he wasn’t sleeping through it. “Except Tailgate.”

“Can’t be changed by something you didn’t live through.” The sad irony was that missing the war wasn’t making the minibot’s life any easier. “Is Ultra Magnus still drilling him on the code?”

“He tries, but when Tailgate’s available, something always seems to come up that’s more important.” Ratchet could guess who was arranging those terribly important things, and he wondered just how long Drift could continue to divert him. “Maybe I’m biased, but I really don’t think the little guy should be punished for it.”

“No one deserves Ultra Magnus’ undivided attention for prolonged periods of time,” Ratchet said, shifting the armor on his back to make things easier for Drift. “Someone needs to get Tailgate up to speed somehow, but I’m not sure how effective this will be.” Which brought up an interesting question. “How did  _ you  _ learn the Code?”

“Kup dumped it on my new berth and told me to have fun with my new doorstop.” Ratchet felt more than heard Drift’s chuckle. “The Wreckers weren’t exactly… Well they didn’t care I didn’t know any of it. As far as they were concerned, my having a copy was enough. Springer even put  _ recruited neutral _ on my records at first, even though they all knew better. But I didn't want to be caught unaware by something every Autobot knew and I didn’t, and caught out for not knowing the rules. So I read it.”

“Responsible of you.” Smart, too, since he could easily have run into someone who’d want to catch him out on “not being a  _ real  _ Autobot”, given his history. Tailgate was probably in for a few attempts by others to “prove himself” after his own unfortunate announcement. “Did you use it as a doorstop when you were finished?”

“Why? Are you going to tell Ultra Magnus if I did?” Drift moved on to Ratchet’s legs.

“No.” That would just stir up trouble none of them needed. “Might tell Kup if I ever see him again, though. He’d get a kick out of it.”

“Oh, he already knows I used it as a doorstop.”

Ratchet laughed. “Good. It’s not exactly useful for much else.”

“It does have  _ some  _ other uses,” Drift said magnanimously.

“Name one.”

“Projectiles,” Drift deadpanned, and they both cracked up. “Although Ultra Magnus was extremely displeased that Roddy chose to throw that datapad at my head to make a point.” He blew on the line of paint he’d just put down, then moved on to the next place that needed a touch up. “He threatened to give him remedial lessons alongside Tailgate if he couldn’t treat the Code with proper respect.”

“An effective threat, as long as he doesn’t just decide to walk out on them because he has ‘captainy things’ to do.” Though Ratchet was pretty sure “captainy things” involved doodling on his desk and taking naps, with no actual work whatsoever. 

“Which is probably why nothing came of it in the end.” Drift’s laugh didn’t make the paint brush so much as tremble.

“I see.” Ratchet turned his helm until he could see Drift’s face. “He didn’t try to drag you into the lessons too, did he?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll get around to it. Eventually.” Drift’s gaze flicked up to meet Ratchet’s with a smile, then returned to an expression of focus as he went back to work. Ratchet let him without interrupting further, silently following all the places Drift was touching up his paint. Some of the scratches he could remember getting; others, he couldn’t. Fortunately, it didn’t really matter.

Drift followed his lead, silently projecting his  _ enjoyment _ of his task as he waited for the paint to cure.

Ratchet had floated back into powersave before he got to the polish. 

It wasn’t time for his shift to start, nor Drift’s, when something brought him out of recharge — true recharge this time; Drift had apparently plugged them both into the berth before curling up in his arms. Maybe it should have disturbed him how quickly he’d gotten used to Drift moving around and taking care of them and just  _ being there _ that he hadn’t woken for any of that, but he deleted the thought. He didn’t want to dwell on it. 

So what had woken him this time? Everything seemed fine. The room was dark and quiet. There was no danger, just that ever-present smell of incense that permeated—

Drift’s frame shuddered as his engine coughed.

It was a quick hiccup of a cough, fairly characteristic of a car built for speed, but unmistakable.

Ratchet opened a commline to First Aid in the medbay.  _ “Got another one with the engine cough,”  _ he said without preamble.  _ “Is ISO overflowing yet?” _

_ “It is. I’ve got several confined to their rooms already. Need me to come help corral this one?” _

_ “I’ve already got him in his room, but if you’d bring the supplies it’d save me some time.”  _ And ensure Drift didn’t try to sneak off to do anything last minute before he was officially under quarantine.  _ “It’s Drift.” _

There was a pause, then,  _ “On my way,” _ First Aid sent before letting the channel drop.

Next to him, Drift coughed again. Ratchet stroked his shoulder gently. “Drift? Wake up.”

“Wha..?” Drift sounded groggy. From someone Ratchet knew could wake and be alert instantly at the slightest disturbance — who  _ had _ woken instantly when Ratchet had stirred before — it was more than confirmation enough that he was sick. “Hi, Ratchet.” He scooted closer to the medic (somehow, given they were in full frame contact already) and sighed. “Warm,” he said sleepily.

“I am, yes.” Was Drift having trouble regulating his internal temperature because of the disruptions? Good thing First Aid was bringing a thermal tarp, among other things. “Got some bad news for you, though.”

Drift’s nasal ridge wrinkled. “S’Magnus’ turn t’deal with all the bad news.”

“Not this bad news — well, actually, yes, but you still have to deal with it too.” Ultra Magnus was going to have to deal with rearranging duties around Drift’s absence on the bridge. “You’ve got the engine cough.”

“Nope. Fine. Jus’ sleepy.” He coughed.

“Uh huh.” Ratchet queued up his onboard scanner. “I don’t believe you. Mind if I take a look?”

“Look at anythin’ y’want.” Drift’s accent was shifting, from the rather posh Iaconian one he usually used to something closer to the rough drawl more common in the slums. Maybe even some hints of Kaon, but if so, Ratchet wasn’t going to draw attention to it. “Jus’ don’ touch.”

Luckily, Ratchet didn’t need to touch to confirm the diagnosis (he didn’t mention how Drift was the one clinging to  _ him _ and thus touching was unavoidable). A surface level scan was enough, given the progression of symptoms. “You’ve got it alright,” he said, holding back a sigh. That meant  _ he  _ was going to come down with it soon now too. He could take precautions with patients in the medbay, but cuddling for joors in the same berth with an infected mech sort of guaranteed exposure.

Nothing for it now. At least he could arrange for the medbay to run smoothly without him  _ before _ he had to shut himself up in ISO too.

It only took a few kliks, but Drift had fallen completely back into recharge by the time First Aid arrived. He pinged for entry, then used an override to open the door, stepping in quickly to let it close behind him. Ratchet was pleased to note he had air filters over all his intake openings, and was already wearing a pair of cis-polyisoprene gloves over his hands and a clear plastic protective visor over his optical band. Good. They were going to need at least  _ one _ medic well enough to see them through this until Ratchet recovered.

“How’s he doing?” First Aid stepped closer to run his own diagnostic scan.

“Groggy. Not coughing frequently, but his temperature isn’t holding steady.” Ratchet started disentangling himself from Drift. Drift clung, making an engine-whine of protest that was interrupted by a hiccuping cough. Maybe he should have started trying to escape before First Aid showed up. “Hand me the blanket,” he told the other medic, hoping Drift would loosen his grip once he no longer needed him so much for his heat.

First Aid had handed it over and Ratchet spread it out over Drift, who sighed contentedly, but didn’t let go. Ratchet felt the sparks of  _ excitement/amusement _ in First Aid’s field as he watched; he could practically hear the other medic squee. Rolling his optics, Ratchet pried Drift’s fingers free of his plating one by one, sliding himself by inches to the edge of the berth until he was finally able to stand and tuck the edges of the tarp in around Drift’s frame.

A crease formed in Drift’s forehead. “Ratchet?” His voice still had that slums-and-maybe-Kaon burr around the edges. “‘Sup?”

“I need to go,” Ratchet said, continuing to smooth wrinkles out of the blanket (and not because it let him keep caressing Drift. Nope. Had nothing to do with that). “You’re sick. First Aid and I need to seal you in so you don’t spread it.”

“I have a datastick with a medical program that should help you feel more alert and another to lessen the intensity of the cough,” First Aid informed him briskly. “But so far the only cure for this sort of ailment is rest. You’ve been alloted unlimited power from the ship’s grid. Stay here and recharge.”

Drift blinked, then coughed. Ratchet wondered if he’d let First Aid administer the program, since that required access to one of his spinal ports. True, he hadn’t hesitated to let Ratchet plug in, but that had been while he’d been fully aware and capable of keeping his defenses firmly in place. Who knew what he’d do now. Mechs with less reason than Drift — asexual, former Decepticon, recovered addict — could get combative when a medic went for their networking equipment.

Ratchet smoothed another (nonexistent) wrinkle from the blanket, and reached out with  _ assurance _ in his field.

“S’okay,” Drift ducked his head and pulled back the cover on his topmost port, letting First Aid load up the program. It would take a few kliks to kick in.

“I’ll also leave a mild sedative here,” First Aid said softly. “On a different datastick,” he assured before Drift could tense. “All three programs are to be taken on an as-needed basis, and are mild enough that the only restriction is that you need to be connected to the ship’s power, or they won’t run. The files will also auto-delete after a decacycle. If you’re still sick, I’ll prescribe more then.”

Frag, Ratchet  _ hoped _ Drift wouldn’t still be sick after a decacycle; the  _ Lost Light _ would probably implode. This particular cough seemed to take two or three cycles to blow over, and that was going to be rough enough. Rodimus and Ultra Magnus really needed Drift as a go-between to keep from constantly working against each other.

Maybe getting sick himself was a blessing in disguise. He wouldn’t have to deal with the remaining command staff while he was in quarantine, which he intended to start immediately when they got back to the medbay. Restricting himself to patients who already had the cough would prevent him from spreading it until he started showing symptoms, at which point he would hole up in his quarters until it passed.

“I’m officially putting you on medical leave,” Ratchet said, updating Drift’s status on the ship’s roster as he spoke. “Taking care of yourself should be your first priority right now.”

The code took effect and Drift’s optics brightened. “Know better than to argue.” His higher class accent had reestablished itself.

“For once,” Ratchet teased lightly, patting Drift’s shoulder through the blanket one last time. “I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.”

“Sure.” Drift smiled charmingly. The effect was not quite ruined by a hiccuping engine cough.

First Aid followed Ratchet out, sealing the door behind him with another medical code. Ratchet checked which one he’d used, and nodded when he saw it was correct. “We’re going to need to reconfigure things a bit between the three of us,” he said as they set off down the hall. “I have to assume I’ve been exposed and am contagious at this point.”

“Understood. Let’s get you into ISO,” First Aid said, risking a comforting touch on Ratchet’s arm. “Ambulon and I’ll go to a two-shift system. I assume you’re going to want to work with the other sick mechs until you need to rest?”

“Yes. I can still be useful for a little while longer that way.” And then he’d actually  _ be able  _ to rest until he was better. What a luxury it was, not being the only medic on the ship! “Let’s hope you and Ambulon manage to keep dodging it.”

“We’ll manage,” First Aid assured. “It’s a short-cycle, minor illness. As long as at least one of us dodges it for three or four more cycles, we’ll stay staffed until you’re better.” That was the bottom line with something this minor and this contagious. Quarantine wasn’t going to do more than slow it, but they needed to slow it enough that the ship had enough unaffected crew in turns to keep flying.

ISO was definitely crowded, but they found just enough room for Ratchet to tuck himself into a corner. He checked in on everyone else, assisting two of them with the sedative program, then settled in to wait for the next casualty.

To help everyone keep track of their data sticks, First Aid had put them all on thin cables each patient wore around their necks. It was an oddly relaxed form of triage. It had some similarities to Ratchet’s experience as a battlefield medic, but without the threat of death if he was a nanoklik too slow. Ratchet took vitals, tracked symptom progressions, and helped administer med programs.

A couple of mechs got discharged once their coughs stopped, and sent back to their rooms to finish recovering during Ambulon’s next (delayed) shift. They were replaced quickly by two new mechs: Perceptor and Whirl.

Ratchet knew Perceptor was good to take care of himself, so he wasn’t worried when the scientist claimed a spot and kept to himself. Whirl though…

“Hey,”  _ cough, _ “docbot! How’s it hanging?” He sounded  _ way _ too cheerful for someone who’d just been tossed into ISO, especially someone with his documented  _ love  _ of the medbay.

“Fine,” Ratchet said guardedly, unsure where Whirl was going with this — or if he was even going anywhere with it at all. Whirl could and did talk just to talk, and it didn’t always matter if he had an actual conversation partner or not. “You seem to have avoided the lethargy and grogginess everyone else is getting with this cough.”

“Pfft!” Whirl waved that off.

“Whirl rarely gets groggy when sick,” Perceptor piped up quietly. He was definitely groggy, though still awake. “It’s why he needs to be in the ISO room, under a medic’s optics, instead of locked in his quarters where he can goof off and destroy the walls.”

“Run yourself into stasis then, do you?” Ratchet gave Whirl a critical look. Not feeling sick while being sick didn’t just lead to boredom (and boredom induced destruction), it could also lead to accidentally overextending and doing additional systems damage. “I hope you realize the only goofing off allowed in here is  _ sedentary  _ goofing off.”

“Which,” his engine coughed several times, “is why I’m so happy to see you!” Whirl clacked his pincers together excitedly. 

Great. “I’m not here to entertain you,” Ratchet warned. “I’m here to make sure you get healthy so I can kick you back out of here as soon as possible.” For all their sakes.

Predictably, Whirl completely ignored that. “You and Drift, huh? How’s that go—”  _ Cough! _ “Going?”

“That’s none of your business,” Ratchet said, because it wasn’t. Not that that was likely to stop Whirl.

“I just wanna know if he’s had the biting dream yet!” 

He could try to tell himself his helm hadn’t jerked up at that, but Ratchet knew he wasn’t fooling Whirl.

“He has!” Whirl crowed. “Or wait.  _ Has _ he? Was that because he has or because you don’t know what I’m talking about? This is  _ vitally important _ information I need to place my bet! Inquiring minds want to know. See? This is me. Inquiring.”

Perceptor was doing a good imitation of powersave, but Ratchet saw his optics just barely lit with interest. “And just how,” Ratchet asked, ignoring the “sleeping” scientist, “is that vitally important information?” He didn’t want to encourage Whirl, but slaggit, he was curious! 

“It means he’s  _ emotionally invested,” _ Whirl stage-whispered. “Drift’s pretty choosy, but there’s choosy and then there’s had-the-biting-dream.”

“…Is that all the biting dream means?” 

“No.” For someone whose face consisted of a single optic, Whirl managed to be pretty expressive with it. The lenses shifted, brightening the light in parts of the optic and darkening others until he’d managed a good, if crude, impression of a smile. “But you need to answer  _ my _ question first. As if you haven’t given it away already, but,” his pincers clacked as he coughed again, “I want to hear you say it.”

“Fine!” He really had already given it away. “Yes, he had the biting dream. Assuming me waking up to him nipping at my plating in his sleep is the biting dream.” For all he knew there was more than one.

“Woo—!” Whirl’s crow of excitement was interrupted as he doubled over in a coughing fit.

Ratchet waited for him to recover. “So?” he asked when the coughing had once again settled into satisfied chortling. “What does it mean?”

“Drift doesn’t,” Whirl made a crude gesture with the cover of his wrist-cord, indicating interfacing. “He bites. He  _ wants _ to bite and drink your fuel.”

“Decepticon rumors,” Perceptor scoffed with a soft cough of his own. “He’s never admitted to hematolagnia.”

“He likes biting! And he licked fuel off your armor!” Whirl turned to debate with Perceptor.

“He enjoys using his teeth, in both sexual and nonsexual ways. He likes fuel in the context of tasting his partner. It does not necessarily follow that he wants the fuel  _ from _ his partner.”

It also didn’t mean that he  _ didn’t,  _ but that wasn’t something Ratchet was going to discuss anywhere in Whirl’s vicinity. “I take it the biting dream just indicates a level of comfort with a given partner then?”

“Essentially,” Perceptor spoke over Whirl’s answer. “It’s definitely involved in a fantasy, though it may take a while for him to admit it to you.”

“Did he ever admit it to you?” Ratchet hadn’t considered it before, but way they were talking, it sounded like Drift might have spent some time with Perceptor in the past. Intimately. 

Perceptor gave Ratchet a critical look. “Yes,” he said eventually. “And yes, there is a distinct relationship between fuel, biting, and affection in Drift’s experiences — something he’s insecure about in the presence of Autobots, which come from generally higher social classes than most Decepticons did.”

“Not me!” Whirl cackled, coughed, then cackled some more. “I was nothing back then!”

“That doesn’t mean Drift has to tell you anything,” Ratchet said to head him off. “He doesn’t have to tell me either, for that matter.” Even though he hoped he would. “Which is why  _ neither  _ of us is going to bother Perceptor over it, got it?”

“Pfft! I’ll harass the dork—”

_ “Sniper _ dork,” Perceptor corrected, in what was obviously a well-worn exchange between them.

“—all I want! But,” Whirl coughed, “you wanna know the  _ real _ reason he won’t say anything?”

“What ‘real’ reason?”

“Decepticons say all  _ sorts _ of wonderful things about him because  _ Deadlock _ was  _ badaft.” _ Whirl cackled again, this time without the coughing fit. “But  _ Drift _ doesn’t want to upset our delicate Autobot tanks,” he scoffed.

Tellingly, Perceptor didn’t try to refute that.

“‘Delicate’, huh?” Ratchet was pretty sure no one had ever used that word to describe him. 

“Not the turn of phrase I would have used,” Perceptor said. He paused to let a small coughing fit pass. His systems were reacting to the disease, obviously, but without a vehicle engine, his coughs were softer and he was having fewer fits.

“Pfft!” Whirl, with his huge helicopter engine, coughed until he fell over. “You heard the same ‘Con talk I did. Tell me most  _ Autobots _ wouldn’t run screaming if they heard about Tur—”

“You’ve made your point,” Perceptor interrupted sharply.

Instead of finishing his sentence, Whirl just laughed.

Ratchet stomped on his curiosity. He was not going to encourage more gossiping on the subject. And if  _ Whirl _ was actually going to shut up about it after making his point, Ratchet probably didn’t want to know. “Alright, time to calm down and get some rest,” he said, walking over to haul Whirl back up onto his berth. “You need to rest, whether you feel like you do or not.”

Whirl gave Ratchet that slightly disconcerting optic-grin of his. “Make me.”

Ratchet held up the data stick with the sedative program on it. “Try me,” he scowled.

Whirl flipped over and scrambled off the berth. It wasn’t graceful, but Ratchet had been expecting the helicopter to go for  _ him, _ not make a bid for freedom. Where did he think he was going to  _ go _ ? They were locked in the ISO room!

“Get back here!” Ratchet scrambled after him, trying not to knock into anyone else in the crowded room. He’d corner him and sit on him and sedate the everloving slag out of him!

Whirl cackled, interspersed with coughs, but he made the mistake of scrambling over Perceptor, who reached out and grabbed  _ something _ on Whirl’s frame that brought the larger helicopter to a screeching halt.

“No fair! Let me go, dor—”

“Sniper dork.”

“—k!”

“Thank you,” Ratchet said to Perceptor, rushing over to get a handhold himself so he could wrestle his way around to an access point to upload the sedative. “Now hold still and let me shut you up!”

Whirl did  _ not _ hold still. He wiggled and thrashed and generally thought this was the funniest thing ever. This did not amuse Ratchet in the slightest, and he was thoroughly aggravated by the time he managed to insert the data stick.

“You’re disturbing the other patients,” he hissed, still holding Whirl down until the program could take effect. “And you’re not doing yourself any favors either. Knock it off.”

“Make me,” Whirl chortled as the sedative did its work. His optic rapidly dimmed and his frame went limp.

“I just did,” Ratchet huffed, not feeling triumphant so much as relieved. “You’re going to wake up magnetized to that berth.”

“Which is what he wants,” Perceptor said tiredly. 

“I don’t care.” Ratchet lifted Whirl up off Perceptor and put him back on his own berth before firmly attaching him to it. Tempting as it was to leave him there just in powersave so he’d run his reserves down and wouldn’t have the energy to make trouble when he woke up, he wouldn’t get any better that way, so Ratchet dutifully plugged him into the berth’s power so he could recharge. “As long as everyone gets to rest,  _ I’ll  _ be happy.” 

“I didn’t say it’d make him happy; I said ‘it’s what he wants’,” the other mech pointed out primly. “As evidence he succeeded in making you angry.”

“I’m not angry.” Anger took more energy than Ratchet had to expend right now, a realization that had him running a quick check of his systems. He wasn’t coughing yet, but… “I probably won’t be anything but asleep by the time he wakes up.”

“Well then, before we both fall over, I have to ask.” A small, almost delicate cough interrupted, and Perceptor bore it out before continuing. “We talked a lot about Drift, but what about you? How does this make you feel?”

“Me?” Ratchet paused, trying to find a way to put his feelings into thoughts and his thoughts into words. “I enjoy spending time with Drift. We’re very different,” he admitted, aware that those differences were often the source of contention, “but I’m…” Hopeful? Optimistic? He couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. “I’m curious about what might develop.”

“Alright,” the scientist said evenly. “Then there’s just one thing I think you should know.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“With the right targeting apparatus, I can hit a stray shanix chip from beyond the curve of a planetary horizon.” For a moment, Perceptor looked as vicious as Whirl ever had. “If needed.”

Ratchet blinked, somewhat taken aback. “Noted,” he said slowly, recognizing both the implied threat and promise. He hoped Drift knew what a good friend he had in Perceptor; Ratchet certainly hadn’t been expecting the shovel talk from him! “I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” and Perceptor was just a harmless looking scientist again. A  _ sleepy _ scientist.

Ratchet climbed back onto his berth leerily, not fooled for a nanoklik. Good thing he already hadn’t had any intention of hurting Drift. Perceptor gave no reaction to Ratchet’s visible wariness; his optics shut off and he powered down to rest.

It took less time than Ratchet thought it would to follow him.

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

Being sick was boring. Why hadn’t he packed any datapads or other reading materials, or have a holoscreen with videos in his quarters? Sure, after being out of production for millions of vorns, the prices for entertainment disks — especially new ones, or rarer old ones — were exorbitant, to say nothing of a holoscreen, but grunts shelled out the shanix all the time to crooked quartermasters. Surely as Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet could have afforded  _ something. _

He was glad he wasn’t in the ISO room anymore. As a mech with no roommates to worry about passing the cough to, or any specific reason to be under a medic’s constant care for the duration, First Aid had moved Ratchet to his room as soon as he was too sick to help. At the time, Ratchet had just been glad he didn’t have to listen to Whirl and his rendition of Nine Thousand Nine Hundred Ninety Nine Bottles Of Napalm On The Wall any longer. He’d slept, then coughed himself awake, then — despite the lethargy — hadn’t been able to sleep again for joors.

That’s when the boredom had hit. 

It had  _ almost _ been enough to tempt him into answering some of the literally thousands of comm pings he’d gotten from Rodimus and Ultra Magnus.

He was blearily staring at his internal chronometer on the third cycle of symptoms, counting the nanokliks until his frame would let him shut down again, when Drift let himself in to Ratchet’s quarters.

“Hi.” He fidgeted. “Ambulon says once it’s gone I can’t catch it again, so I got permission to come visit you.”

“He’s right about not being able to catch it again,” Ratchet said, struggling to sit up. “Not this round, anyway.” Different variants would still make it past self repair, but luckily they were dealing with a single strain. 

Drift came over to the berth and sat down. “How are you? Bored?” he added teasingly.

“Of  _ course _ I’m not bored. I’ve got so many things I could be doing that I just can’t choose one,” Ratched snarked back. “At least I’m not singing.”

“Whirl,” Drift said, nodding knowingly.

“Yes. I owe the mech so many processor aches. And he owes First Aid for passing on the cough,” Ratchet complained, though it didn’t really affect him in his convalescence. Ambulon was the one stuck with all the work until Ratchet recovered. “If you knew it was boring in here, why did you come?”

_ “You’re _ not boring,” Drift said. 

“Debatable,” but Ratchet was starting to smile in spite of himself. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I’m not sure how long I can stay,” Drift warned, stroking Ratchet’s side. “Rodimus came down sick last cycle.”

“And does that—” Ratchet stopped to let a coughing fit pass. “Does that make your job easier or harder?”

Drift shrugged. “Different. Ultra Magnus doesn’t listen to me, but if this is any example, without the captain he also freezes up and doesn’t do  _ anything _ not directly involved in the basic running the ship.”

Could be worse then, Ratchet supposed. “We’re both going to have even less free time until everyone gets better.”

“Well good news is, difficult to work with or not, Ultra Magnus seems immune to this and every other minor illness in existence,” Drift said cheerfully. “So we’re not about to lose a third bridge officer.”

“He really does seem to be, doesn’t he?” It was almost miraculous. Or, rather, it might seem miraculous to anyone who didn’t know that Ultra Magnus had a few extra layers of protection between him and those minor illnesses. Not that he was addled enough to say that to Drift; it wasn’t his secret to tell.

Drift shrugged again. “Would you like a shoulder rub? I’m trying out non-obligation based relationship activities,” he added with a self deprecating smile, “and I want you to feel better. I know that cough hurts.”

It really did. “Sounds like a good non-obligation based activity to me,” Ratchet said, shuddering through another cough that seemed determined to prove the point. “I’d appreciate it.”

Drift pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the berth and helped Ratchet move so he was sitting in front of him. “You’re slouching,” he murmured, putting a hand on Ratchet’s back and the other on a shoulder to guide him to sit up straight. “I know the myomer’s fatigued, but proper posture helps.”

“Proper posture is easier when I’m horizontal,” Ratchet said, but he made an effort to straighten up. It didn’t  _ help, _ because the effort was exhausting, but each cough hurt slightly less. “Too bad my processor isn’t feeling as fatigued as my frame.”

“I brought a datapad for you to read after I’m gone.” Drift’s hands smoothed over Ratchet’s shoulders, rubbing away the aches. He wasn’t really trying to massage, just providing warmth and touch, encouraging the cables to relax. “Breathe with me. If you need to cough, don’t worry, but try?”

“See? Perfect example of why meditation isn’t an effective treatment,” Ratchet said, coughing his way through his first attempt at regulating his venting. “This cough is far too disruptive.”

“Meditation can’t get rid of the illness,” Drift said with amusement. “And I’m not trying to guide you into a trance state; just something to make you more comfortable. Follow me and give it a breem. Vent in… one… two…”

“One… two…”  _ Cough, cough.  _ It took awhile, but it did eventually get easier. Having Drift’s hands gently stroking over his plating, along with the warmth radiating off his frame, might not have been able to eliminate the cough, but it did make it a lot more bearable.

“There,” Drift said softly. “Keep that rhyth— Drat.” He sighed. “Keep that rhythm while we get you horizontal again. Duty calls.”

“At least it’s not boring?” Ratchet grinned. “You mentioned a datapad?”

“Yup,” Drift popped the “P” sound. With a flourish, he pulled it from subspace and put it on Ratchet’s chest. “Enjoy.” He picked up Ratchet’s hand and bunted it affectionately, then tucked him under the thermal tarp. “I’ll be back when I can.”

“No rush. I’ll be even less interesting when I’m asleep.” Ratchet waited until Drift was almost out the door before adding, quietly, “Thank you.”

Drift paused, then looked back with a bright grin. He almost vibrated with happiness, and the bounce in his step as he entered his code and left looked more… more genuine than Ratchet was used to.

It was sort of nice, knowing he’d contributed to that.

That warm, uplifted feeling lasted until he turned on the datapad to see what Drift had left him. On the first page, in a deceptively cheerful font, the words "Basic Precepts of Spectralism: Welcome to Primus' Guiding Light!" glowed malevolently at him.

Ratchet threw it aside with a curse.

It was joors later, after waking from a short-lived nap, unable to return to recharge, and driven to desperation by the boredom, that he dragged himself off the berth to retrieve it. The front page was just as obnoxiously cheerful as when he’d opened it the first time. Ratchet  _ loathed _ it on sight, and he loathed Drift for doing this to him. Was he really going to read this garbage, just for something to do?

He stared at the title, seething, for another breem before he cracked. He could point out all the logical fallacies as he went for something to do. He flipped the page.

JUST KIDDING.

Ratchet almost threw the damn thing again. It wasn’t long, however, before his hands were shaking with laughter instead of rage.

“You must think you’re so clever,” he muttered, continuing on to see what the datapad  _ really  _ held. Conveniently enough, the third page was a table of contents. Scrolling through the titles, Ratchet had a pretty good guess it was mostly science fiction, ranging from the trashy to the ultra realistic, accompanied by related nonfiction articles analysing the science of the stories, along with the peer reviewed articles those articles cited. Interestingly enough, while the peer reviewed stuff was all pre-war, the fiction seemed to be a good mix of pre-war and more recent stories, and all of the analysis articles had been written after the war began. 

All told, it was a lot of material, and some of it actually looked pretty interesting. He was still going to throw it at Drift’s head for pulling that joke with the title when he saw him again.

Picking a story more for the associated articles than the narrative itself, Ratchet settled in to read.

“Lonely In A Nuclear Winter” was about a Decepticon trapped on a hostile alien world. Ratchet  _ almost _ skipped it when he realized the protagonist was a Decepticon, but hung on when the initial battle looked like it was being won by the Autobots. There wasn’t much discussion of the glory of the Decepticon Cause; it was just a single soldier, trying to survive the chaos of his ship being blown apart around him, get to an escape pod, and launch it. Then the mech had woken in a new, unknown place, faced with fuel starvation, alien parasites, and crushing loneliness.

The articles that went with it primarily had to do with the viability of his choices regarding fuel and keeping himself in repair, which was what had drawn Ratchet’s attention to this story in particular. Their approach was matter of fact, and the faction allegiance of the main character was ignored as irrelevant to his survival. The only analysis that mentioned it at all brought it up in the context of determining whether or not the mech would attempt something risky for the sake of the payoff, rightly asserting that sort of behavior existed among both Autobots and Decepticons.

Ratchet thought about what the mechs he knew would do in a situation like that. It was hard to imagine any of them not taking the risks. Autobot, Decepticon, or neutral, a common trait among all the survivors of their race was the propensity to act rather than wait idly. Sometimes any action, no matter how bad the consequences, was better than doing nothing.

The last article before he got to the story’s peer reviewed section caught Ratchet’s optic because it was such a  _ Drift _ sort of article: “The Philosophy of ‘Lonely In A Nuclear Winter’: Isolation as Both Facilitating and Inhibiting the Discovery of Deeper Self”. A little leery but having enjoyed the other articles, Ratchet began reading.

It  _ wasn’t _ a wishy-washy religious thing. It wasn’t religious at all, focusing entirely on secular philosophy, containing citations for psychology and philosophy texts and articles from well respected institutions. Whoever this Digress was who’d written the article, he’d really done his research. Ratchet was impressed, and intrigued by some of the arguments he put forth. He wouldn’t mind discussing this with Drift, as something for them to talk about. Assuming he’d read it, but Ratchet felt that was probably the case, since the datapad had come from Drift in the first place.

Given how much of the analysis had focused on fuel and repair, Ratchet wasn’t surprised to recognize most of the peer reviewed articles and excerpts from medical texts that followed. There were still a few he wasn’t familiar with, and of course the philosophy, psychology, and religious articles cited by Digress in his article, which Ratchet had always scoffed at, were new to him. But he was intrigued enough by the story and the writing that he went through them all.

It was… It was a different branch of science. Very Rung-like, in fact. Even the religious articles weren’t really arguing for a particular belief system; they simply analysed faith in the context of history, practice, ethics, and effects it had on the Cybertronian mind. Some of them were even outright critical of it!

Surprised by how much he was enjoying himself, Ratchet kept going with the next story on the list, looking forward to talking about them with Drift.

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Not all of the stories were as faction-neutral as the first. The early war analysis of pre-war fiction pieces, especially, discussed the characters and actions through the lens of the Decepticon Cause. It was then Ratchet realized that all of the wartime era writing had probably been crafted by Decepticons.

He didn’t recognize any of the authors; Drift hadn’t gone so far as to put anything by Megatron on the datapad, but the agendas — and even moreso than that, the recurring Decepticon protagonists — said more than the authors’ names about their faction. That didn’t, however, immediately render their points invalid. For one, they continued citing the peer reviewed articles to make their arguments, which were not faction influenced. And Ratchet wasn’t so closed minded he would shut out their words entirely, but he did keep their biases in mind as he read. He was relieved, though, that Decepticon protagonists or no, the stories rarely had Autobot characters, and if they did, they appeared briefly as plot-drivers rather than as literary examples of Decepticon views of their enemies.

Some authors, like Digress, became more familiar as they appeared attached to multiple articles. In fact, looking back, Ratchet found his name somewhere in conjunction with every single story. He’d even written a couple of them himself. Ratchet chuckled quietly. Looked like Drift was a fan. Easy enough to see why — Digress tended to focus on the philosophical, but in a way that was much more practical than most of the philosophers Ratchet was used to. He made the subject palatable and approachable, even if Ratchet didn’t always agree with his conclusions. There were even a couple oddball articles very early in the mech’s apparent writing career: one on the psychological effects of long term poverty in general, and another a scathing rebuttal of one story’s specific portrayal of the lives of homeless mechs.

Nor was Digress the only philosophical writer. Others tackled the same topics, sometimes agreeing and sometimes disagreeing with Drift’s favorite, but Digress was the most consistently philosophical.

Eventually, Ratchet napped again, and this time he woke to see Drift had let himself in again and was in powersave leaning against his berth. Recharge, actually; Ratchet spotted the cord connecting his wrist to the berth’s power.

Unplugging his own wrist, Ratchet sat up, wondering whether or not to disturb him before realizing he should have thought of that before he moved. Drift started, one hand jerking to the sword resting on the ground automatically, then he turned on his optics on and looked up. He smiled. “Feeling better?”

“Much, actually.” He wasn’t completely over it, but he could feel the worst symptoms had passed, and a self-diagnostic scan confirmed it. “I should probably put myself back in the rotation for shifts soon.”

Drift nodded understandingly. “Ambulon won’t really talk to me, but I can tell he’d appreciate being able to collapse for a bit. His aura is dull and tired, and,” he added before Ratchet could scoff, “he’s picking more of his paint off than normal.”

“That, I’ll believe.”

Without disconnecting from the berth’s power, Drift climbed up so they were side by side. “What’d you think of the datapad?” Ratchet felt the silent laughter skitter though his field. Fragger.

“Consider yourself lucky I’m not hitting you with it,” Ratchet grumbled. He could technically reach over and grab it and smack that smug faceplate right now, but that might break the datapad and he still had a few stories left to read. “Think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I’m hilarious.” Drift sighed. “You feel up to me leaning on you, or do you want to lean on me?”

“I just told you I want to hit you and you’re asking to lean on me?”

“I was a Wrecker and I follow Rodimus around like a lost turbo puppy,” Drift said self-deprecatingly. “I’m sure ‘crazy’ is a prerequisite for both of those things. Though if you  _ do  _ try and hit me while we’re cuddling, it will probably end unpleasantly for us both.”

“As long as you’d hit back.” Drift took enough slag from everyone. Ratchet sighed and pulled him in closer so they were leaning on each other. “Still wasn’t funny.”

“I wouldn’t want to hit back; I’m just not sure I could stop myself,” Drift said seriously. “And I carry more weapons than just those swords,” which were still over on the ground, out of easy reach. “Not something I advertise, but you deserve to know.” But instead of dwelling on it, Drift sighed in contentment. “And you should be glad I didn’t program it to snap a picture when you flipped to the second page.”

Ohhh, Ratchet would have _ killed _ him for that. “I am very glad you didn’t,” he said diplomatically. “And I appreciate the warning, though I’d sort of assumed it. I’ve been around warriors long enough to know some reflexes run deep.”

“Well your dignity is safe. I didn’t even have it make a picture for me, so definitely not sharing with the crew.” 

Ratchet could feel the silent laughter again. “Good,” he said, firmly maintaining his gruff demeanor. It was  _ not  _ amusing, however much Drift thought otherwise. “Where did you get that collection, anyway?”

Ratchet felt Drift shrug, now wary. “It’s some of what I had in my processor when I fled. Kind of a,” he made a vague gesture with the arm not trapped between their bodies, “long running thing. I saved things.”

“It’s a bit of an eclectic mix.” But not in a bad way, as he’d discovered. “I noticed you have a favorite author.”

“Inscribe?” Drift said, naming one of the writers who had done multiple stories and articles. “Yeah. I really liked how his words formed a rhythm. He wrote music too, for a while.”

“I saw his name several times, yes,” Ratchet said, idly wondering if Drift had any of Inscribe’s music stashed away on a hard drive somewhere, “but he’s not who I meant.”

Drift tilted his head to look over at Ratchet curiously. “Novelle? I was a bit obsessive for a while, but I didn’t think I had  _ that  _ many stories of his left.”

“You don’t, unless he’s written for all the ones I haven’t finished yet.” How had that been his next guess? “You were aware that Digress has at least a short blurb attached to every single story on there, weren’t you?”

“Well yeah. That’s why I kept them.” Drift sounded confused. “But you said ‘favorite author’ and I’ve been told it’s beyond socially acceptable levels of arrogance to call myself my favorite.”

“Digress is  _ you?!” _

Drift blinked and drew back (just a bit, not out of frame contact) so he could look at Ratchet warily. “Yes?”

“…You know, that actually explains a lot.” It also made Ratchet wonder who else he’d been reading, disguised under a pseudonym, but he could ask about that later. “I thought he must have been your favorite author because you shared so many similar ideas.”

Drift chuckled. “I suppose we do. I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out though. Drift — Digress? I wasn’t exactly subtle, and I kinda chose my pseud before,” he waved his hand again. “Before Deadlock. But you can’t change it once you submit your thesis—”

“I had no idea you were published at all, and it was pretty clear you’d given me a collection of Decepticon writings. Drift, in any form, is not a name I was thinking of in that context.” Even if it was blatantly obvious in hindsight. But he hadn’t thought Drift had ever had the time or inclination to write anything. Except maybe a meditation manual. “You wrote a thesis? On what?”

_ “Philosophy and ethics of the Decepticon Cause,” _ Drift said in a rush, likely anticipating Ratchet’s reaction to a title like that. “It wasn’t, you know,  _ published  _ published. Not anywhere you’d recognize. But we had our own, our own things. Places. To do that sort of thing. If it had been a real university, I guess I would have majored in philosophy and minored in literature. Along with about everyone else who joined classes because they thought Megatron had a fantastic turn of phrase.” Drift looked down at his hands.

“Classes?” Ratchet hadn’t realized that was something the Decepticons  _ did.  _ Intellectually, he knew they’d started as a movement with broader goals than the violence they’d come to be known for, but setting up their own version of universities?

“Y~eah,” Drift drew out the word. “They were kind of haphazard, I guess, because it was illegal for us to have the textbooks and research materials. Caste restrictions. The poetry clubs had it so much easier. They just had to vet their members, but we had to vet everyone involved and beg, steal, and copy restricted texts.” Drift looked down and away, his field becoming a little closed off. “Are you sure you want to talk about this? It’s not like theses and degrees or things like that have mattered to anyone for centuries and it’s… I was…”

“A Decepticon,” Ratchet said evenly; Drift flinched. It wasn’t like anyone really  _ forgot _ it, but the more time passed between mentions, the more comfortable he was, and they’d only just gotten over the last disagreement stemming from their different backgrounds. It made Ratchet appreciate the risk Drift was taking by letting him see his stories so quickly.

“I’ve seen the general state of the Autobots’ surviving literary works,” Drift continued after a moment, “and I thought you’d enjoy something that wasn’t either ancient, porn, or declassified combat records. I tried not to include anything explosive.”

“What you included wasn’t free of party line bias, but it was also self-critical and very well researched.” Ratchet tried patting Drift’s shoulder reassuringly. “It wasn’t inflammatory propaganda, it was intelligent, rational discussion, and I did enjoy it. I don’t agree with all of it, but I enjoyed reading it, and I don’t mind talking about it with you. I’m actually rather curious now, knowing you were one of the authors, whether you still stand by all of your conclusions or if your views have changed since you wrote them.”

Drift’s frame stilled.  _ Wariness _ skittered through his field before he could stop it. “Some things have changed,” he eventually said.

“But not everything?” Ratchet guessed shrewdly. He could understand why Drift might be reluctant to talk about it, given the general views of everyone on the  _ Lost Light. _ Of Autobots in general. The war being over didn’t suddenly make certain things safe topics of conversation. Doing a complete turnaround was _ expected _ of defectors, and if they still had sympathies… “I’m not looking for something to attack you with, you know.”

“No one wants to hear how Decepticons are misunderstood, dregs of society, wanna-be academics who were forced to fight when the government tried to kill us all,” Drift scoffed defensively. “Even Decepticons don’t believe that slag anymore.”

_ Us.  _ Somehow Ratchet wasn’t surprised Drift still identified, to an extent, with the Decepticons. “I don’t care what they believe. I’m asking what  _ you  _ believe.” Because if they were going to try to be more than casual acquaintances or friends with benefits, Ratchet wanted to understand. “Why did you become a Decepticon, Drift?”

With a sharp yank, Drift pulled his cord out of the jack in the berth and coiled it back in his wrist. Ratchet thought he might have pushed too far, but instead of leaving, Drift drew his knees up to his chest and scooted back to lean against the wall. It was very defensive frame language and Ratchet didn’t miss how it put some distance between them. 

But he didn’t run.

“You wanna,” that rough, Dead End accent was back, and Ratchet knew that, defensive posture or no, Drift had decided to take down some of his Happy Autobot shields, “know what happened after you fixed me up an’ sent me on my merry way?”

It was something Ratchet had wondered about. Not something he’d tormented himself with, exactly; the fact that Drift had gone on to become Deadlock, and Deadlock a murderous Decepticon, wasn’t something he felt personally responsible for. Doctors  _ weren’t _ responsible for their patients’ actions, only their own. The Healer’s Code stressed that a patient was a patient, nothing else, and doctors had a duty to repair their patients, so that was what Ratchet had done. But he knew that of the many, many mechs he’d treated in that Dead End clinic so long ago, the vast majority had either died shortly after or gone on to become Decepticons. It was a source of frustration at his own limitations. He’d been there to make a difference, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d done all he could, and it still hadn’t been enough, and he’d been foolish enough to think it would be.

“Yes,” Ratchet said carefully after a quiet moment of reflection. “I would.”

“After I finished throwing a tantrum because you’d ruined my chance for a painless death,” Drift drawled sardonically; Ratchet knew better to be fooled by the sudden shift in tone, “I went and did what you’d told me to. No one’d ever said I was special ‘less they wanted a discount frag, an’ you didn’t even hand me a bill for repairs, so I figured I owed you that much. I went to the Functionalists to see about getting a job that didn’t involve standing on a street corner. Couldn’t afford the paint’n polish though.” Drift sighed. “Might be why I was turned away, but it’s just as likely because my creation records were deleted when the company I was made for went bankrupt. No records, no job.”

“It could have been either or both, depending on who was behind the desk that cycle.” The Functionalists hadn’t been fair by any stretch of the imagination, and a front line desk clerk taking a disliking to your paint job or not wanting to exert anything more than the bare minimum of effort had ended the meager hopes of countless mechs. Again, nothing Ratchet could have done anything about. He hadn’t had the resources, either in materials or in shanix, to send his patients away with fresh paint and appropriate documentation. “Where did you go from there?”

“Back to my street corner. Thought after a few customers I could get enough boosters to try again, an’ this time do myself in  _ privately, _ find someplace no stupid cops’d find me.” Drift folded his arms over his knees and rested his head on them. “Didn’t get that far. Withdrawals hit. Wasn’t expecting them, ‘cuz you’d cleared out the trace, an’ I felt fine. But right when I’d normally start lookin’ for my fix, they nailed me. Didn’t have anything to chase them away, ‘cuz I’d used all my boosters already. Someone called me over — hey good lookin’ — an’ I went, ‘cuz I was shaking and desperate. Turns out he weren’t a customer; he was a  _ recruiter, _ lookin’ to ambush anyone who was turned away from the job office.”

“And that’s when you joined the Decepticon movement?”

“He offered a boost, just enough to get me coherent, then offered a recharge berth — one with  _ real power _ — in exchange for learning to shoot. What was I going to say at that point? Frag off?”

“Of course not.” That would have been suicide, and while Drift had definitely been suicidal, he’d only been driven there by the desperation of his circumstances. He hadn’t really wanted to die, he’d just had no way of living. Mechs like him would have been easy targets for the Decepticon recruiters, and Ratchet couldn’t blame them for leaping at the chance of survival. “You showed enough talent with a blaster to rise quickly then?”

“Yeah. Not perfect scores, but I was still spending everything I had to get high. Was told I should quit so I’d be better, but it weren’t worth the effort. Got good enough to start earning my keep though, an’ was sent to play bodyguard for one of the volunteer teachers who was getting harassed more than usual.” Drift sighed, shoulders slumping. “Gleam didn’t want a guard, but he was more than happy to get me straightened out.”

“Oh?” Ratchet bypassed what Drift said about his continued struggle with the boosters. It was a difficult addiction to overcome, and the fact that he hadn’t miraculously done so overnight didn’t lower him in Ratchet’s optics. Back then he’d thought clearing the trace, urging the mech toward a new life was enough, but he knew better now. That addiction wasn’t just physiological; it was mental. It took more than willpower to set the drugs aside. “What did he teach?” Gleam wasn’t a name he recognized.

“First aid, health, basic repairs.” Drift shifted enough to free one hand and wave it in the air vaguely. “Stuff like that. He did a little of what you did, too. Repairs, when needed, only he couldn’t legally have a clinic, an’ he actively recruited. He — ‘Cons, really, but he was the one used them — had a couple of rooms at a sympathetic brothel where he set up a sort of rehab space for anyone interested. I wasn’t, an’ that didn’t bother him. He put me to work helping with the U, gave me enough to do that I just kind of… I don’t know, forgot, about the boosters. Withdrawals hit, but this time instead of giving me a hit so I could keep going, he helped me through them.” Drift’s field was filled with so much  _ affection _ Ratchet felt himself echo it without meaning to.

“He sounds like a good mech.” And a mech who’d done a lot of good, albeit with the support of the Decepticons. That was a step Ratchet had refused to take on ideological grounds, even though it would have brought him more resources. He’d believed, at the time, that he could make things work within the system. “Were you with him for long?”

“Until Deadlock was given a command position, and Gleam stayed in medical. That’s when he gave me the crystals.” Drift tilted his head, then held out his hand. Not coming out of his defensive huddle just yet, but the condemnation he’d expected hadn’t manifested, so he was inviting Ratchet to join him. Ratchet was more than willing to and took Drift’s hand, scooting closer to him on the berth. “The fighting was getting intense, but between us and a bunch of others, we tried to keep the U going as a datanet thing.”

“So you kept in touch that way.” Crystals… “He was your mentor then? In more than just Decepticon doctrine.”

“Gleam was a rishi, a priest, in Spectralism. Dedicated to Primus.” Drift leaned against Ratchet, one arm wrapping around his waist. “He took it very seriously. A rishi is supposed to teach, so he did, damn the laws, even if he wasn’t teaching religion.”

“But he did wind up teaching you religion along with the rest.” That was an interesting revelation. It meant Drift — Deadlock, at the time — had come to Spectralism much,  _ much  _ earlier than Ratchet had thought. He’d known it had been while he was a Decepticon, not while he was with the Circle, but not that it had been  _ part _ of him becoming a Decepticon, becoming a believer in Primus and the Cause at roughly the same time.

“Started with meditation and cleansing ceremonies to help with the withdrawals,” Drift confirmed, his accent softening, settling somewhere between the Dead End-Kaon mix he’d been using and the Iaconian one Ratchet was used to hearing. “Shifted to philosophy once I was able to argue back, and I started taking U classes so I could actually win a debate with the fragger. Found I liked the classes, and I actually believed what Gleam was telling me, so I kept up both. I’m a sibyl, in case you were wondering.” He huffed gently; he knew Ratchet wouldn’t normally care. “In plain Cybertronian, it means ‘seer’. Essentially I don’t need a rishi to perform ceremonies for myself, and I’m supposed to live by example, but am not obligated to teach. Though I can, and once I have a student who becomes a fellow sibyl, I can choose to take on the mantle of a rishi.”

“If that’s an ambition of yours, I hope you’ve better sense than trying to make a student out of me,” Ratchet said, his tone light but his words perfectly serious. “But I am glad you found someone to help you and give you direction.”

“You are, aren’t you?” Drift sounded a little amazed. Then guilty. “Even though I killed Autobots?”

“I won’t pretend that makes me happy.” It didn’t. He wished Drift could have found a different path, one that didn’t leave so many of Ratchet’s former comrades’ bodies in his wake. “Then again, it doesn’t make me happy that the Autobots killed so many Decepticons, either. No one had an easy choice back then. You made a choice to keep living, to better yourself, against overwhelming odds. That’s something to be proud of.” 

Drift finally let himself relax against Ratchet. “Still want to talk philosophy with me then? Because you asked if my conclusions had changed and the real answer is mostly not. The philosophy didn’t change; the Decepticons did.”

“We all did.” Neither faction could claim to be what they had started out as. “But the Decepticons changed a long time ago. Why stay with them as long as you did? What finally pushed you to leave?”

“Tell me exactly when the Decepticons changed,” Drift challenged. “Looking back, millions of vorns later, it’s easy to see something happened, but  _ when _ exactly? Because I can’t pinpoint the moment until the one that I looked around and didn’t recognize the galaxy I was living in, and not in a good way. As for  _ leaving,” _ Drift shrugged. “After trying and failing to kill my superior officer there wasn’t really any chance I was staying. Actually pausing to take that look around I needed came after.”

Ratchet didn’t say anything right away. What could he say? For him, the Decepticons had been bad enough from the beginning, but his circumstances had been different. What Drift’s tipping point “should have been” wasn’t something he could put a finger on, even if there was still a difference between knowing that intellectually and feeling that somehow, somewhere, there  _ must  _ have been a better way, and they  _ should have  _ known it.

“That’s what Crystal City gave me,” Drift said a little breathlessly. “People think I did a complete heel turn there. Found religion, gave up guns, finally discovered Decepticons were evil. That’s been useful, but the reality’s a lot more boring: they gave me space. Well,” he chuckled, “they also tried teaching me philosophy. But really it was the space I needed to convince myself.”

Ratchet huffed a short laugh. “You’d already found philosophy and religion before Crystal City.” Which, having read some of Drift’s critical writings, he was sure had let him view what they had to teach him with an unclouded optic. “Are you saying that even if they hadn’t been pushing their ideas on you, that’s when you would have stopped calling yourself a Decepticon?”

“Only Primus knows what might have been,” Drift recited, “but in all likelihood… probably. The Circle had something to compare to, but I don’t think it would have mattered if not for Gleam and the U.”

If only the opportunity had come sooner… Still. Plenty of other Decepticons had never come around at all. Worse, they still advocated for what they’d become by the end of the war, even now that it was supposed to be over. “I suppose it is kind of pointless to talk about might have beens,” Ratchet said, forcing himself away from that line of thought. “Leaving Primus aside, there’s no changing the past. A more relevant question might be, how do your philosophies line up with those of the Autobots? You could have gone neutral,” he pointed out.

“I did.” Ratchet felt Drift’s frame shake in silent laughter. “Then Kup and Springer turned a perfectly good, silent infiltration plan into…” He huffed out a laugh. “Into what Kup and Springer do best, and the Decepticons found out I was actually alive. Turmoil recognized me, and I wasn’t able to confirm a kill so I figured I’d be on the List as soon as he crawled from the wreckage. I  _ might’ve _ panicked a little once things calmed down, so when Kup offered to put me on the roster…?”

“It was smarter to say yes than go it alone.” Being an Autobot was good protection against things like the DJD. Also good protection against things like the Wreckers, who could have made one former-Decepticon neutral’s life pretty miserable if they’d decided to. “Easier too, than trying to say no to those two.”

“So now you know all my secrets.”

“Not all, I’m sure,” Ratchet said with a wry smile. “But thank you for sharing that much with me.”

“Now I just need to find out all your secrets.” Drift laughed, but Ratchet could tell that the cheerfulness was just barely covering his tiredness. He had no idea how long Drift had been here, in recharge, before he’d woken up, and this conversation had obviously taken its toll. 

“There’ll be time for that later,” Ratchet promised, nudging Drift to lay down beside him on the berth. “Right now, I think we could both use a little more rest. I’m still recovering, after all, and technically so are you.”

“Don’t have time to still be sick,” Drift protested, but let himself be ~~bullied~~ _ coaxed _ into going horizontal. He reached around to plug back into the berth.

“You’ll take the time to get better or you’ll miss even  _ more  _ time when you collapse,” Ratchet said, holding his arm out to Drift. “Would you get mine?”

“Sure.” Deftly, Drift flicked open Ratchet’s wrist and drew out the topmost cord. He plugged it into the berth next to his own and caressed it. Ratchet sighed and settled his helm against Drift’s shoulder. It was nice having someone there. Comforting. That Drift didn’t have to be here right now just made it nicer.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Drift made wordless interrogative sound.

“For getting the cord.” For being there. For sharing such personal secrets. “And stuff.”

“Happy to help, Ratchet,” Drift murmured. 

Ratchet wanted to stay online longer, just to enjoy the moment, but his frame had other ideas. Still closer to his convalescence than Drift, and with just as much work waiting for him, the draw of recharge quickly proved too hard to resist.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

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There were some mechs who disliked going back to work after being sick. Ratchet wasn’t one of them. He much preferred being back on duty to convalescing in his quarters, even though his initial shift back was practically non-stop. The bulk of the crew had either already contracted the cough and was in the process of recovering, or was finally coming down with it now that it was so widespread, and all of them seemed to need a medic.

Ratchet was completely exhausted afterward, and just hoped that First Aid would be recovered enough by the time Ambulon inevitably came down with it. He was being incredibly careful, but no one’s luck lasted forever.

Halfway through Ratchet’s off-shift, it finally ran out. Ambulon woke Ratchet a few joors after he’d fallen into recharge with a comm saying he had to be taken off duty. Since everyone else (except Ultra Magnus, the fragger) either had the cough or was in various stages of recovering from it, Ambulon waited until Ratchet had dragged himself from his berth to officially collapse. Ratchet could at least give him credit for his awareness of his own limits, and timing that collapse well.

Ratchet wasn’t one to thank Primus, whatever Drift might wish, but he was grateful when both his energy and assistance in the form of a still-recovering First Aid made an appearance on his next normally scheduled shift.

“You take ISO,” he said to First Aid on his way out the door. He was the one in better shape to be traipsing around the ship, so he was making the rounds of everyone in their rooms. “Call me if anyone shows up with something urgent.”

“Can do that,” First Aid confirmed, before gratefully heading to ISO where he could mostly sit while he attended the patients there.

“Hey!”  _ Cough! Cough! _ “Hot stuff!” Ratchet heard Whirl call as he left. He would be glad when the rotary was finally well enough to evict from the premises. He was taking much longer than anyone else to kick the cough, and he was driving Ratchet nuts.

There were still a lot of mechs confined to quarters, and of the lot, Rodimus was the highest priority (however much Ratchet dreaded having to check in on him). They needed to get back up to three not-sick bridge officers, or at least get an idea of how long Drift and Ultra Magnus needed to continue to cover for him.

Ratchet made his way to the captain’s habsuite, pinging to announce himself and request entry. It wouldn’t wake Rodimus if he was asleep, but if he was awake, Ratchet didn’t want to go breaking in with a medical override.

“‘Sup?” Rodimus called as the door opened. “Ratch! Tell me you’re here to release me!”

“Only if you’re well enough,” Ratchet said, stepping in to find Rodimus sprawled on his berth in what he probably thought was a pose of tragic despair. “I’m not letting you out just to have you collapse on the bridge.” Or decide to fake collapsing on the bridge to get out of doing something he didn’t want to do once he was there. No, Rodimus was staying in his room until he was so completely sick of it that pulling a stunt like that would lose any and all appeal. “Are you still coughing?”

“N—”  _ cough!  _ “—o.”

“Uh huh.” It wasn’t a very pronounced cough, but it definitely wasn’t gone yet. Rodimus was going to be off the roster at least another full cycle. “And have you been recharging?”

“Uu… uh, yeah.” Rodimus tried to “subtly” shift to (belatedly) hide the damning nonsensical graffiti on the wall next to the berth.

“Doodling doesn’t count,” Ratchet chastised him, coming over so he could get an updated scan and check to see if he was even plugged in. “I know you were told the only way to get better was to rest.”

“I,”  _ cough, _ “ha~ve been,” the captain whined, slumping down onto the berth and no longer bothering to hide the doodling on the wall. He was plugged into the ship’s power, at least, so that was something. “I can’t help it. Drawing just  _ happens.” _

“Uh-huh.” Ratchet looked briefly at the collection of nonsense designs, arrayed almost like one of those mandala things around a central quartet of figures in a particularly obscene tangle. “You should be sleeping.”

“I can’t.” Rodimus pouted.

“Try drawing in your sleep then,” Ratchet suggested, passing the scanner over the captain and going over the results. They showed clear but minimal improvement. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere just yet.”

“But,”  _ cough! _ “Ra~tchet!” He was back to whining. “It’s so  _ boring _ in here. I should be out searching for the Knights of Cybertron, not in stuck in here. Rusting away.” His attempt at a tragic slump was ruined by a fit of coughing that forced him to curl into a tight ball of erratically twitching plating.

“If you found them right now, you’d just wind up giving them your cough.” Ratchet fished out a data stick and held it out to him. “This should help with the symptoms so you can actually get some rest. With any luck, one more cycle is all you need.” Then Ultra Magnus and Drift wouldn’t have to work as hard, even if Ratchet still did. He and Drift wouldn’t be able to get much time together until this finished blowing over.

Rodimus didn’t bother making any snide comments as he reached out of his curl and weakly swiped at the datastick in an attempt to grab it. His field communicated his truly epic  _ sulk _ as clearly as any words he would have said. Ratchet caught his hand and helped him curl his fingers around the data stick with a sigh. “You’re not going to die,” he promised, not entirely unsympathetic. He’d just been where Rodimus was a few cycles ago himself, and it was uncomfortable and miserable… and yes, boring. Especially if no one came by to stay and visit, like Drift had done for him. “Do you need help administering this, or will you be alright on your own?”

“I need help, Ratchet.” Rodimus coughed and lifted his head up, out of his huddle, with a pathetic wide-eyed look. “I need all the help. You can stay and help me. Since,” he muttered quietly, “Drift’s spending all his time with you instead of me~.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ratchet huffed, taking the data stick back. “Drift is on shift, and so am I.  _ Separately,”  _ he added, before Rodimus could get any smart ideas. “Neither of us has time to sit at anyone’s bedside.”

“He did though,” Rodimus whined as he flopped over so Ratchet could reach the appropriate dataport. “He came to say hi to me, then went to be with you.”  _ Sulk! _

“That was in his off time, and I didn’t ask him to.” He’d enjoyed it though. Both the reading material and the company. But none of that was Rodimus’ business. “Who knows? Maybe he’d come sit with you if he wasn’t pulling extra shifts to cover for you.”

“I work!” Rodimus’ next coughing fit eased as the datastick clicked into his top port and the program loaded. “I do lots of work! I’m the captain!”

“I didn’t say you don’t work.” Thought it occasionally, but didn’t say it this time. Being sick was a legitimate reason to miss work, and Rodimus was legitimately sick. “You can’t work now until you’re better though, and that means Drift has more to do than usual.”

“It’s not fair.” Already Ratchet could see that Rodimus’ laser pen had appeared and he was etching tiny designs into one corner of the berth itself. He left him to it; let Ultra Magnus police him if he doodled on the office furniture, but the berth was his. He could ruin it if he wanted, and be the one to replace it when it collapsed from being carved too thin to support his weight.

“Life’s not fair,” Ratchet said blandly, preparing to leave. “I’m down a medic and the ship’s down a member of the command staff, but everyone will be better soon and things can get back to normal around here.”

“Mean. You’re so mean to me.”

“I’m mean to everyone.” 

“Go away and let me die in peace.” Rodimus had to lift himself up in order to dramatically flop back down on the berth. Nothing would have made it look less petulant, but it might have been  _ slightly _ more effective if he weren’t back to doodling two nanokliks later.

“You are  _ not  _ going to die,” Ratchet repeated on his way to the door. “Go to sleep.”  _ And don’t pester Drift by calling him constantly, _ he thought uncharitably as it closed behind him.

Now for the others. Hopefully they wouldn’t be as much of a strain on his patience!

He had to kick Blaster off his datanet terminal to recharge, and he walked in on a fight he had to break up between Trailcutter and Hoist over who was on whose side of their shared habsuite, but otherwise everyone Ratchet checked in on was too tired and miserable to be any trouble. Some mechs were doing worse than the last time they’d been seen, but no one outside the normal progression of the cough, so there was no cause for concern. Ratchet was able to return to the medbay after completing his rounds without anyone in tow to keep a closer optic on in isolation, which was something at least.

First Aid was tending to a mech who’d fallen and broken an arm strut when Ratchet arrived. Whirl was curled up on a nearby berth where he was — miracle of miracles —  _ actually _ recharging quietly. 

“How are you holding up?” Ratchet asked quietly, not wanting to disrupt First Aid’s work (or Whirl’s sleep).

“I’m good to keep going,” First Aid answered just as quietly. He glanced over at Whirl. “He’s not contagious anymore, so I thought it’d be okay if he came out of ISO?”

“Only as long as he still needs to be in the medbay,” Ratchet said. “Not contagious is one thing, but disruptive is another. If he starts causing trouble, I want him either back in ISO or in his habsuite.” Until then, he really  _ didn’t  _ have a reason to kick him out. Personal dislike wasn’t a reason not to treat someone, and Ratchet would stick by that… but he didn’t want First Aid excusing Whirl’s disruptive behavior because he  _ did _ (inexplicably, as far as Ratchet was concerned) like him, either.

First Aid’s field flickered nervously. “He’s fine right now though, right?”

“He’s fine right now,” Ratchet confirmed, his reluctance tempered by the knowledge that everyone in ISO was probably resting better without him in the room with them. “I’m going to update everyone’s charts. Has Ambulon called for anything?”

It was difficult to frown without a mouth, but First Aid managed. “I should check on him. He usually doesn’t call for anything unless he’s dying,” he said a little lightly, but with an undercurrent of seriousness. “When we were rooming together we always checked on each other…” 

The  _ Lost Light _ was a big ship. It had more than enough habsuites designated for the nonexistent medical staff, and both First Aid and Ambulon had claimed separate rooms when they’d first come onboard. Since then, Ratchet knew, they had always recharged together. They thought Ratchet  _ didn’t _ know, but he wasn’t  _ blind.  _ “Finish that arm and then go see how he’s doing,” he said. He didn’t think Ambulon wouldn’t call if he really needed something, but the mech didn’t like to complain. He very well could have decided to suffer rather than bother anyone for palliatives. Between his history with the Decepticons and Pharma, Ratchet couldn’t say he didn’t understand why Ambulon might feel that was the better option.

Drift came by long enough to give Ratchet’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze and take a headcount of those still sick in ISO and locked in their quarters, then disappeared again. It was getting close to when he should be taking a break, but Ratchet didn’t really expect they’d get to spend it together this time. Medbay had enough work for two, easily, and Ratchet imagined it was the same for the remaining bridge officers.

Yet, while he had a lot to take care of, Ratchet wasn’t  _ overworking.  _ It was the difference between feeling comfortably occupied with rather than burdened by the tasks he had to do. Knowing he wasn’t going to have to pull a triple shift of surgeries solo after a major offensive really put the monotony of handling minor aches and ailments into perspective.

.

.

.

The next few cycles followed in the same pattern: slowly but surely, everyone recovered from the cough. Ratchet was able to clear Rodimus to return to duty, though that didn’t immediately make it easier for him and Drift to do more than snag the occasional moment together. Ambulon turned the corner the cycle after the captain, and with ISO emptying out, Ratchet and First Aid agreed that he should take his time recovering.

With Whirl finally gone — discharged as healthy, not kicked out for being a nuisance, though it had been a close thing — there was finally enough peace and quiet for Ratchet to continue reading the datapad Drift had left him. He’d decided to finish reading all the stories and their articles before going back to reread Drift’s personal contributions as Digress, and he was down to the very last ones.

There was always a slight sense of  _ dissonance _ when he first started a story, or came back to reading them after a shift. He knew it was unfair, that it shouldn’t matter, but knowing the writers were Decepticons always made him expect, if only for a klik or two, for the writing to be… subpar. The Decepticons had organized classes, a  _ university, _ for this, but that wasn’t what Ratchet associated with them. Strong opinions, yes, and even, to a degree, a penchant for rhetoric. But thoughtful? Educated? The words on the datapad were indicative of a level of organization and long term planning he’d never had any idea existed within their movement. Decepticon recruiters had always won mechs over with promises of training them to become more powerful and strike back at those who oppressed them. Not with promises of bettering their minds.

Ratchet wondered why they hadn’t tried this angle, why they hadn’t tried publishing this sort of thing along with Megatron’s infamous slag. But it was obvious this wasn’t propaganda; this was Decepticon writing meant for other Decepticons to read. They weren’t making any effort to sway their readers; they all already shared the same cause.

That wouldn’t save him from the wrath of Ultra Magnus if he found out Ratchet had these writings. Or save Drift, if he found out he still had them in his head. Giving them to Ratchet had to have been some sort of test.

Ultra Magnus could suck Ratchet’s exhaust port. 

But that made Ratchet wonder what else Drift might be saving, secreted away on his personal hard drive. Some of the time stamps on these stories and articles indicated that at least  _ some _ Decepticons had kept at this well into the war. Did Drift know who any of the others were? Had any of them known who  _ he _ was?

Would he let Ratchet read his thesis if he asked?

He didn’t get a chance to pursue the thought, however. An emergency call from Swerve’s —  _ several  _ emergency calls from Swerve’s — abruptly cut off the rest of his break.

_ “Ratchet! There’s been—” _

_ “—need a medic  _ **_now,_ ** _ Pipes is—” _

_ “—Max just shot him and stormed out and I don’t know what’s going on—” _

Ratchet was on his feet before he’d even consciously registered Hound, Trailcutter, and Swerve’s individual voices.  _ “How bad is it?”  _ he asked, conferencing in First Aid.  _ “How many times was he shot and where? Was anyone else hurt?”  _

Three voices tangled into one incomprehensible reply.

_ “Go,”  _ First Aid said, already beginning to set up for the trauma.  _ “I’ll have things ready when you bring him in.” _

In the time it took Ratchet to let the rattled mechs at Swerve’s know he was on his way and step out into the hall, he was brought into another channel by Drift.  _ “Don’t head directly there, Fortress Maximus is at large in the halls heading toward the communal areas of the ship,”  _ was the first thing he heard.  _ “You need to approach from the residential block to avoid him.” _

Slag. That way would take longer, but if Fort Max had suddenly started shooting up the bar, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t shoot anyone who crossed his path.  _ “Are there any other victims?”  _ Ratchet asked, rushing through his transformation sequence and tearing off down the hall.

_ “Boss,” _ Drift answered tersely.  _ “He’s being taken to medbay now. Beta team, hold off until Ultra Magnus gets th—” _ Ratchet tuned him out as he started addressing the security teams, trying to get them organized enough to corral the rampaging mech.

Swerve’s was a mess when he arrived. A group of mechs consisting of some of the ship’s mostly-noncombatants was huddled behind the bar, which was covered in broken glass. Nearer the center of the room, Hound was trying to keep the unconscious Pipes alive, while Trailcutter and Cyclonus stood by to defend them.

_ Poor Pipes,  _ Ratchet thought as he transformed.  _ First Delphi, now this…  _ “What am I dealing with?” he asked, taking in the gaping hole in Pipes’ torso. A single shot, it looked like, but from a big mech with a  _ big  _ gun. 

“Fort Max just walked in and shot him,” Hound replied over Swerve’s erratic babbling from behind the bar, making room for Ratchet without letting go of the energon line he had clamped between his fingers. “Close range, not quite point-blank, and only once, but it did a lot of damage.”

“You do anything more than start clamping off lines?”

“I haven’t been able to find all the ones that are leaking.”

Pulling his toolkit from his subspace, Ratchet got to work. He didn’t send Hound away; the mech was competent enough to help clamp lines, and Ratchet wasn’t going to turn down the hel—

_ “Turbine and Dogfight are both down,” _ Drift announced, the undercurrent of stress in his voice cutting through Ratchet’s concentration.  _ “Ratchet, you need to get back to—” _

_ “Dynamite has Doubletap stable enough to move,” _ Ultra Magnus’ voice was the same calm as always as he cut in with more bad news.  _ “Taking him to—” _

_ “I’m heading back as soon as Pipes is stable,”  _ Ratchet reported, focusing on getting his patient ready for transport. Just a few more major leaks… “Help me load him up,” he said to Hound, transforming and popping open the rear door of his alt mode. “Then follow me back. I’m going to need extra hands.”

_ “I’ve let Ambulon know what’s going on,”  _ First Aid’s voice came over the line.  _ “He’s on his way in.” _

_ “Good.”  _ He might not be at a hundred percent yet, but with five patients already and counting, they were going to need him.

Ratchet heard Rodimus’ voice join Drift’s and Ultra Magnus’ in the command line, but he didn’t mention any more casualties so Ratchet tuned him out until—

_ “So this is a hostage situation?” _

_ Frag. _

Hound close behind him, Ratchet listened more attentively as they rushed to get Pipes to the medbay.

_ “Blaster’s trying to patch into an old security camera above Rung’s desk,”  _ Drift was saying, which sent a spike of worry through Ratchet’s spark. If Rung had a patient in his office, that meant they were both in danger… He forced himself to push the thought aside. If Fortress Maximus was holding Rung and anyone else with him hostage, it meant he wasn’t on a rampage anymore, and that meant they had a little bit of breathing room before any more victims started showing up with holes in their torsos. 

_ “Who’s the most critical?”  _ he asked First Aid, prioritizing the medical comm line over the command one. 

_ “Dogfight,” _ Ambulon answered.  _ “First Aid’s busy getting him prepped. I’m working on Turbine.” _

_ “Then who are we still waiting on?”  _ There were only three berths occupied when Ratchet drove in and pulled up beside an empty one. Hound transformed and immediately started unloading Pipes.

_ “Still waiting for Doubletap to get here,” _ First Aid reported.  _ “Boss isn’t stable, but he’ll survive long enough. I hope.” _ Such was the nature of triage.

_ “We’ll reassess everyone when he arrives, then.”  _ Ratchet transformed and got back to work right away on Pipes. His energon loss had slowed, but not stopped, and the shorn wires and connectors were at risk of sparking and igniting something.

Time simultaneously slowed and passed in a blur. Ratchet fell into the unfortunately familiar routine of making rapid repairs on multiple patients, coordinating with First Aid and Ambulon to make sure they spread their attention effectively without completely splitting it and making mistakes. Dogfight wound up needing constant attention for a full joor, so they had to rotate Turbine, Boss, and Pipes between whoever wasn’t with him. The worst moment was when Doubletap was brought in; Ratchet started assessing him while First Aid worked on Dogfight, leaving Ambulon juggling all three of the others with Hound.

Nearly two joors had passed before Ratchet was able to check his chronometer again. With Doubletap and Pipes finally stable, and Dogfight no longer threatening to offline every time anyone so much as turned around, he tuned back into the command channel he’d all but muted to see how things were progressing.

_ “…inclined to, we cannot go back to Cybertron right now,” _ Ultra Magnus was in the process of stating. 

_ “So you just want to leave Whirl and Rung in there with him?” _ Drift spat crossly.

_ “That is  _ **_not_ ** _ what I said,” _ Magnus replied.  _ “Rung is a very valuable member of the crew—” _

_ “Frag o—” _

_ “Guys! Not the time,” _ Rodimus cut in.  _ “We need to stal—” _

“Hostage situation is now entering its second joor!” Siren’s voice announced over the ship’s PA system, interrupting and drowning out the ridiculousness of  _ Rodimus _ playing peacekeeper. “You are reminded that level seven is a restricted area! Stay away from level seven! Detours have been set up—”

“Ratchet, I can’t tell if coolant’s gotten into his vents or if there’s damage somewhere I’m missing,” Ambulon’s weary but steady voice pulled Ratchet’s attention back to his surroundings. He was standing over Boss, peering critically into the hole in his chassis. “There’s a strange clicking sound when his fans come on.”

“I’ll be right there.” A few more spot welds had Turbine’s vitals evening back out for the moment, then Ratchet went over to listen. 

More patches, more welds, more circuit shorts… Things were less frantic for now, but Ratchet and the others still worked quickly, all too aware that they could be receiving new patients any klik.  _ Whirl.  _ Why did it have to be Whirl? The mech didn’t know the meaning of the term “minor injuries”, and that meant he, Fort Max, or both of them were going to come in a wreck when this was over. 

Not his problem until they were actually in the medbay, Ratchet reminded himself. Sorting out the hostage situation was Rodimus’ and the other officers’ job.

By the sound of things though, they weren’t any closer to a resolution by the time all their patients had been stabilized and hooked up for transfusions to replace lost energon. Ratchet glanced down the row as Siren’s voice continued to blare updates over the PA. 

“Why only five?” he muttered, looking at what they had in common besides their injuries. “Why  _ these  _ five?”

“You think he was targeting these guys specifically?” First Aid asked as he looked around quizzically, like he’d lost his favorite microwelder. “Thought we were going with the random act of violence hypothesis.” He checked under Boss’s berth, and made a frustrated sound when he didn’t find it. “Hound? Is Ambulon over there?”

“Yeah, but he’s not awake.” Ratchet turned with First Aid to look, spotting Hound over by one of the unmonitored exam berths. Laid out on top of it like he’d fallen over it and not bothered to get back up was Ambulon. “I just checked his energy levels and they’re really low.”

First Aid bustled over there to fuss like he wasn’t at least as tired as Ratchet. “He wasn’t over the cough quite yet,” he said absently as Hound made room for him. He ran his scanner over his fellow medic and made a  _ tsk _ sound Ratchet had never heard from a mech’s vocalizer before. “We’ll just get him plugged in so he can rest here.”

Ratchet left him to it and turned back to the five shooting victims. First Aid’s words bothered him, somehow.  _ Random. _ Why did everyone assume Fortress Maximus’ behavior had been  _ random?  _ He hadn’t killed Rung or Whirl, and of the mechs he  _ had  _ shot, none of them had been alone at the time. “Pipes was in a bar full of mechs, Boss was with Inferno and Sunstreaker, and Dogfight was with Brainstorm,” he said, thinking out loud. “If he was just attacking anyone who got too close to him we’d have a lot more patients than this.” 

“Ratchet? Can you help me get him all the way up on the berth?” 

Ratchet looked over to where First Aid and Hound were both struggling to lift Ambulon’s legs up; the mech had flopped sideways and they weren’t able to get the proper leverage to right him. He stepped away long enough to help them, straightening Ambulon out and getting him plugged in — mech was  _ heavy; _ apparently being a combiner’s leg meant some really sturdy construction — before turning back to their patients.

Their color-coordinated patients.

_ “Rodimus,”  _ he called over the command channel.  _ “This is Ratchet — do you copy?” _

_ “Make it quick, doc,” _ Rodimus answered tersely; Drift and Ultra Magnus were no longer arguing in the background.  _ “Waiting for Rewind to get in position.” _

Position for what? Ratchet didn’t bother asking.  _ “It may be nothing, but based on what’s in front of me, I think Max was choosing his targets deliberately — subconsciously, but deliberately. Of everyone he encountered, he only shot Autobots who reminded him of Overlord.” _

_ “Sure.” _ Rodimus sounded distracted; he obviously didn’t think this was important information right now.  _ “Thanks Ratch. Good work. I’ll get you a Rodimus Star when this is over.” _

Great. Just what he wanted. Ratchet huffed and went back to ignoring the command channel. He had five giant holes that needed large armor patches, and it would take time to cut them all to shape. 

He’d barely gotten started when Drift pinged him.  _ “You’re needed in Rung’s office. Fortress Maximus is down, and Whirl isn’t much better.” _

And there it was.  _ “On my way,”  _ Ratchet replied, swapping out the armor patch in his hands for a fresh field kit. “The standoff is over,” he told First Aid on his way out. “Watch over them while I go see to our newest patients.”

“Of course!” Ratchet saw First Aid’s hand linger on Ambulon’s for a moment before he went over to check the monitors. “Hound, you can go get cleaned up, if you want, but we may need an extra set of hands when…” He didn’t hear the rest as the door slid closed between them.

Time to see how bad the damage was.

.

.

.

Watching First Aid fuss over  _ both _ Whirl and Ambulon at the same time was borderline nauseating. Ratchet escaped  _ that _ as soon as he could reasonably leave the medbay in the other medic’s hands.

He was at a bit of a loss for where to go once he was out, though. His quarters weren’t far enough away, and he didn’t really feel like going to Swerve’s right now. It wasn’t likely to be any calmer or quieter there than it was in the medbay, and Ratchet wasn’t in the mood to listen to Swerve talk his way through what it had been like to see someone get shot in his bar at anyone in his general vicinity. He wasn’t a therapist; that was Rung, who was probably going to be seeing an uptick in his appointment calendar as a result of the whole debacle.

Once the repairs to his office were complete, anyway. 

He thought briefly about going to check on him before dismissing the idea. Rung had a habit of turning perfectly harmless conversation into impromptu sessions, and Ratchet wasn’t in need of any help “processing his emotions” about what had happened. He’d rather go stare out of one of the viewports, but  _ that _ would be a little pathetic, which really left only one other place he could go… assuming Drift was off duty like he was scheduled to be.

The hall to the officers’ habsuites was as quiet as Ratchet could have wanted. He went over to Drift’s and pinged for entry.

No answer.

Ratchet tried not to feel too disappointed. It wasn’t like Drift had been expecting him, and he was probably very busy tying up loose ends with Ultra Magnus and Rodimus. He turned away. Maybe he could probably get drunk enough quickly enough that he wouldn’t have to listen to Swerve’s—

“Hey! Ratch!” Rodimus poked his head out of his own quarters. “Mr. Mopey Aura!”

“Tell Drift I’m not moping,” Ratchet shot back as he turned to look at the captain, certain that Drift was somewhere behind him based on that comment. “If I had an ‘aura’, which I don’t, because there is no such thing, all it would be is  _ tired.” _

“Sure,” Rodimus waved that away. “Whatever. We’re almost done. In the meantime, you can bask in the magnificence that is this.” He pranced over and dropped one of those stupid gold badges in Ratchet’s hands. “Grats. Have fun. Me and your  _ swain _ will finish up, then he’s all yours for a while.” He pranced back over to his own door. “See?” he called to the other occupant(s), “I can share—” 

Ratchet was glad when the closing door cut off the rest of the sentence.

Almost against his will, Ratchet looked down at the trinket in his hands bearing Rodimus’ smirking face. Another piece of junk to toss in a drawer and forget about. There was no way he was going to  _ wear  _ the slagging thing. If he wasn’t certain Rodimus would overreact to finding out he’d thrown the thing away, he’d just chuck it in the trash. Or the nearest black hole.

Rodimus hadn’t given him an approximate time for when their meeting would be over, so Ratchet just stood awkwardly out in the hall for what turned out to be a little longer than a breem before Rodimus’ door opened again. This time it was Drift who came out, wearing a serious look that turned into a smile when he saw Ratchet. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Ratchet glanced over Drift’s shoulder, but didn’t see Rodimus. Mech was probably hiding behind the door eavesdropping. “Are you off duty yet?”

“Yeah. Come on.” Drift keyed open his quarters; the lingering scent of incense wafted out. “I could get you a visitor’s code, so you wouldn’t have to wait out in the halls next time.” He took Ratchet’s hand and gently tugged him into the darkened room. Once there, Drift drew him in even closer and bunted their helm crests together. “Boosh,” he said with a small smile.

Ratchet sighed and leaned into the contact, happier for it than he’d expected. “I should have called first.”

“You’re fine.” It sounded like Ratchet wasn’t the only one who was suddenly feeling better for the company. “I like this, that you came looking for me.” Drift tucked his head into Ratchet’s neck and took a deep breath of his scent, then nipped lightly. His hand trailed down to Ratchet’s wrist, fingering the cord cover there. “Do you want…?”

He hadn’t even been thinking about anything like that, and the unexpected offer caught him off guard. “Do you?” Ratchet asked, already warming to the idea. 

“I want what comes after,” Drift said frankly, “and I like seeing you go limp from the pleasure.”

“I could go for limp from pleasure.” It beat limp from tired, and would help his processor feel less cluttered to boot. Plus, though he didn’t feel the same need as Drift to make an exchange of it, Ratchet would enjoy the cuddling after too. He pressed his helm more firmly against Drift’s, angling his wrist into Drift’s hand and pulling gently toward the side of the room. Fun as it could be to fall over right here on the floor, Ratchet had a better idea. “Berth?”

“Berth,” Drift agreed. At his silent command, the lights went up to thirty-percent, which was more than enough to navigate the nearly empty room to where the berth had been put back into its usual place against the wall. Gently, Drift pushed Ratchet down and climbed on top of him.

“Don’t go too crazy, or we’ll both wind up too tired for anything else,” Ratchet said, holding up his hands. “Where should I put these?”

Drift blinked. “Here,” he said after a moment’s thought, and guided them up to his shoulders. “That feel comfortable?”

Ratchet smiled. “Yes.” That was even better than at his sides or above his head, which was what he’d thought Drift would go for. He found holds to curl his fingers into, then settled back to let Drift do as he wanted.

It was… freeing to let Drift take charge and set the pace. All he had to do was hang on and enjoy. Given how in control and on top of everything he’d had to be over the past cycle, Ratchet fell gratefully into just being and feeling, anticipating the moment when his slowly building charge would crowd out the rest of his thoughts and leave him with nothing but pleasure.

Drift seemed determined, whatever Ratchet had said about not going crazy, to raise his charge as much as possible before plugging in. Everything he was doing with his hands and his field (and, as usual, his fangs) was carefully planned for maximum effect. Ratchet couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment the panel on his wrist slid aside, but he definitely felt the new thread of sensory data as his cords were exposed to the air.

Finally, when Ratchet wasn’t sure anymore that Drift wasn’t actually trying to get him to overload  _ before  _ letting him plug in, he felt one of Drift’s port-covers slide open in invitation under his twitching, searching, cords. Of course, twitching and searching didn’t equate  _ finding, _ and Ratchet felt the laughter in Drift’s field as he struggled with clearing enough of his processor to guide one of them in.

War-programmed firewalls recognized each other from their previous interfaces as safe and let them into the outer shells of each others’ minds almost immediately. 

_ Where do you want me to touch? _ Drift’s thought prompted dozens of suggestions from Ratchet’s thoughts and memories on how to  _ Stop teasing and just frag me already.  _ The mental chuckle that was Drift’s only response had Ratchet growling his engine impatiently. 

That growl turned into a howl as Drift finally stopped teasing. Sensory data flooded Ratchet’s processor. Fleetingly, he guessed some of it was real — like Drift’s fangs on his chevron, that was (probably) real — but most of it wasn’t, couldn’t be. Drift was using their connection to layer actual sensations with echoes and memories, augmenting them until there was too much for Ratchet’s processor to keep up with. The resulting overload was a brilliant release as everything overflowed, blanking Ratchet’s conscious awareness of anyone and anything.

When the glow receded enough for Ratchet to look up and actually see Drift’s face again, he was greeted with a smile.

“Hi.” Ratchet could feel Drift’s  _ smugness _ and a strange sense of  _ reasserting control _ just before he gently tugged Ratchet’s cord out of his port. “Don’t move yet; you tangled yourself up a bit. Feel better?” 

All Ratchet could feel was Drift’s fingers on the delicate equipment as he  _ un _ tangled them. “‘M fine,” he managed to say, mostly clearly, still looking up at Drift’s optics.

“Never doubted it,” Drift chuckled. Finally, Ratchet felt his cords release the bit of kibble they’d wrapped themselves around and he coiled them back into his wrist. Ratchet found his arms empty just long enough for Drift to light a new stick of incense, then he was burrowing back into his embrace. 

Ratchet rolled onto his side, pulling Drift up against him and holding him securely. “Hi.” It seemed to be a good word tonight. Ratchet tucked Drift’s head down into his shoulder and rested his cheek against his helm. “This is a very good way to end a cycle like the one we just had,” he said, still tired but no longer feeling quite so sensitive to everything. 

Drift sighed contentedly. “That was… a cycle.” He sounded as tired as Ratchet felt.

Ratchet was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he didn’t want to assume. “Can I recharge here?”

“Only if I can recharge right,” Drift bunted Ratchet’s windshield playfully, “here.”

“Deal,” Ratchet agreed easily. “Should probably plug in soon, before we forget and shut down.”

In answer, Ratchet felt Drift’s hands on his wrist again. Once they both were connected to the berth, Drift settled back down. His field flickered with  _ protectiveness. _ “Recharge, Ratchet.” 

There wasn’t anything Ratchet would rather do more. “You too,” he mumbled softly into the dark.

His optics were already off.

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.

.

The still unfamiliar sensation of Drift’s teeth on his armor was odd enough to wake Ratchet, though this time he didn’t immediately think Drift might be searching for a more vulnerable place to bite. Like before, he was just gently latched onto the nearest bit of Ratchet’s frame: a bit of his shoulder kibble.

He took a moment to observe Drift before he entertained the question of what to do about it. 

The “biting dream” (as Whirl had called it) certainly looked like it was a good dream. Drift’s frame was lax and his field was humming away in sleepy contentment. Ratchet remembered Perceptor’s words about how Drift enjoyed using his teeth, sexually and nonsexually, and how biting and fuel were things he associated with affection. Well, whatever Drift thought about “delicate” Autobot tanks, Ratchet didn’t mind that. 

A needy, mewling whine drew his attention back to Drift, here and now, in his arms. He panted softly against Ratchet’s armor, some of his vents coming open to release a little heat as he licked the spot he’d bitten, then latched on again. He mewed, then a moment later he shuddered, a reaction not unlike the pleasure of an overload, without actually  _ being  _ an overload. 

A  _ very _ good dream.

Then it was over and he let go, tucking himself back up against Ratchet as his frame relaxed back into more innocent dreams.

Ratchet kept watching him just a little longer, enjoying the soft sounds of Drift’s engine and the warmth of his frame. He didn’t look tired anymore, which was good. There was a distinct difference between a mech in need of recharge to replenish his energy levels and one just comfortably resting, and Ratchet was all too familiar with the former. He much preferred the latter, and he was reluctant to disturb Drift when he looked so content.

The stick of incense had burned down to a fragile nub of ash that released a thin, weak curl of smoke into the air. It no longer smelled as sharp and fresh as when Drift had lit it, but it still added something subtle and pleasantly relaxing to the ambient scent of Drift’s quarters.

When the ash finally crumbled away and the smoke dissipated into nothing, Ratchet stroked his fingers gently down Drift’s arm. “You ready to wake up?”

“Hmm? Ratchet?” Drift shifted, waking — in a supreme show of trust — slowly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Me,” Ratchet said. He wasn’t fully rested, but he wasn’t going to be able to nap any longer right now and he knew it. 

Drift twisted in Ratchet’s grip so he could stretch. “Sure. What’d you have in mind?”

Nothing, Ratchet almost said again, not really sure what to talk about. He both did and didn’t want to bring up the recent incident, and he didn’t know where Drift stood on discussing it. So he opened with something else entirely. “I finished reading the stories on the datapad.”

“Yeah?” Drift stretched again, this time sitting up when he was done. He couldn’t quite hide the note of hope in his voice or field. “Still like them?”

“Still interested in them, anyway.” Even if he still didn’t exactly agree with them. “Is there anyone else in the collection I would recognize?”

“I can’t match very many pseuds to faces,” Drift said, a little cautiously. “And I don’t really know who you would recognize. I’m,” his tone turned light, trying to hide his nervousness, “not up to date on who made the Autobots’ Most Wanted list.”

“It’s fine,” Ratchet waved it off, not wanting to pressure him. It was a curiosity, not an inquisition. “I just wondered is all. I’d imagine a lot of them aren’t around anymore, if most of these are from the beginning of the war.”

“Some are.” Drift crossed one leg over the other and scooted around to lean on Ratchet. “Okay, so… Oratorio is still around, but I’m almost certain I didn’t include any of his stuff. I don’t know who he is anyway. Epilogue… pretty sure that was Scratch?”

For all the good that did Ratchet. “Not on the Most Wanted list,” he said, completely clueless. “Not in what you included, huh? So I got a rather careful selection then.”

“Oratorio’s a fanatic,” Drift said bluntly. “If he wrote a five sentence blurb Ultra Magnus wouldn’t immediately flip his lid over anywhere in his entire collected works, I’d be  _ shocked.” _

“In that case I think I’ll pass on that collection, thanks,” Ratchet said drily. He was inviting enough trouble already. “What was on that datapad isn’t true propaganda though, whatever Ultra Magnus might call it if he saw it. Not like what I’m used to seeing from Decepticon authors.”

“By which you mean it’s nothing like Megatron’s stuff?” Drift shrugged. “We weren’t trying to copy. There wasn’t a point. No one outside the U was going to read it. We didn’t  _ want _ anyone else reading it, for the most part. And anything we did write for general consumption usually got pulled before being downloaded more than a couple dozen times anyway.”

“Because the Functionalists couldn’t have a bunch of laborers and warriors,” and criminals, Ratchet didn’t say, “publishing scholarly articles.” Naturally. Content aside, the very fact that the Decepticons had been writing at all would have been problematic; add to that the subject matter and it would have been downright illegal, even if it hadn’t been designed to persuade or recruit anyone. “That’s part of why you don’t know who was who, isn’t it? You had to be anonymous, even to each other.”

“Can’t lie to a mnemosurgeon,” Drift confirmed. “If someone got caught, it was the only protection we had.”

Smart of them, Ratchet had to concede. Shadowplay and empurata had been all too common back then. “Did you ever almost get caught?”

“Not because of the U. I was a bodyguard though, and that led to some close calls.” Drift looked down at his hands. “I had to pull Gleam away from a patient during surgery once because of a police raid. Fought me the whole way and didn’t talk to me for a quartex afterward, but he was alive so I didn’t care.” That was a lie, Ratchet could tell from Drift’s field, but such a well-worn, oft-repeated one that Drift had likely almost convinced himself he really hadn’t cared. “He was more valuable than me and everyone else in that building put together.”

Oh, how often Ratchet had heard something like that levelled at him. Doctors — medics of any stripe — hadn’t been all that numerous on either side, especially as time went on. “Being told you’re too valuable to risk doesn’t make it any easier to leave someone behind when you know you could have helped them,” he said, remembering the times he’d been dragged away from his patients. Rationally, he knew what Drift had been through hadn’t been easy for him, but emotionally, he knew exactly where Gleam had been coming from. “You’re lucky he only kept up the silent treatment for a quartex.”

“Probably, but a couple of Weasel’s — he was a local gang leader — heavies noticed he and I were on the outs and decided it was their chance to pick up a pretty helo for their boss. I dissuaded them,” Drift sighed contentedly, “and Gleam decided to stop trying to chase me off.”

“‘Dissuaded’?”

“Killed them,” Drift said simply. “Gleam was… I think his patients and students probably considered me to be his, but the others, the gangs and the police and everyone else… Gleam was  _ mine. _ And even if we were fighting — which we  _ weren’t _ — I couldn’t let anyone touch him.”

Ratchet didn’t say anything right away. He’d been expecting something like that when he’d asked, really. And it wasn’t like the thugs had been perfectly innocent, even if Drift — Deadlock — probably hadn’t waited for them to attack first. What surprised him more was how possessive Drift was admitting to being. Then again, Gleam had been his mentor, not just a mech he’d been assigned to protect.

“The longest I stopped talking to someone who pulled me away from a patient was half a vorn,” he finally said. “He was right to do it. If he hadn’t, I almost certainly would have wound up buried under several thousand tons of rubble when the base collapsed.”  _ Almost  _ certainly, because even now he couldn’t help thinking, if he’d just had a few more kliks… “But I hated him for it at the time.”

Drift shifted so they weren’t just leaning against each other, but embracing where they sat. Ratchet had to admit that he hadn’t been prepared for how touchy Drift was proving to be. He enjoyed it, but he hadn’t been prepared for it. Drift had always seemed a little standoffish, even aloof, when it came to the casual backslaps and hugs most of the crew enjoyed. Maybe it was part of his Happy Autobot mask, or even a remnant of the more vicious, Aloof Decepticon, one. But here, now, with just the two of them, Drift wrapped himself up in Ratchet like he was his favorite thermal tarp. “I would — I  _ will _ — do it again, if needed,” he warned. “Who was he? Anyone I know?”

There wasn’t a doubt in Ratchet’s processor that Drift would do something like that to him if it came to it. “I’ll try not to hate you too much,” he promised. “If it makes you feel any better though, we do get over it. Eventually. Even I couldn’t stay mad at Ironhide forever.”

“Braver than I am.” Drift chuckled. “I’m not sure  _ I _ would have dared to give Ironhide the silent treatment for even a decacycle, let alone half a vorn.”

“I’d say he’s more bark than bite, but I suppose it depends who he’s dealing with,” Ratchet shrugged. Ironhide hadn’t exactly taken being stonewalled well, but he hadn’t done anything about it that Ratchet hadn’t been able to live with. Alternately sulking and cussing him out for being “unreasonable” wasn’t the same as threats of physical violence. “And being brave had nothing to do with it. I was angry, and he got to be the target that time.”

“I still think you’re brave,” Drift teased.

“Whatever.” Ratchet wasn’t going to argue it, especially because it would have involved admitting he’d really been rather petty about the whole thing. “What I’m trying to get at here isn’t about bravery, it’s about forgiveness.” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m still not happy about what he did, but I’m not angry at him anymore for doing what he had to do. The circumstances sucked, but I blame them, not Ironhide.” Or Wheeljack, or Sideswipe, or any number of others who’d dragged him away from a patient kicking and cussing. “I never knew Gleam, but I doubt he blamed you for what you did either, after awhile.”

Drift’s frame went still. Ratchet thought he might have said something wrong, poking at the wound, but then Drift laughed. 

“I know,” he said after the initial burst had passed. “It’s not like that was the last time we talked.” He squeezed Ratchet lightly. “You’re sweet.”

“I most certainly am not!” Ratchet huffed, glaring at the mech in his arms. See if he ever tried to make him feel better again, if he was just going to get laughed at for his efforts! “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are!” Drift looked up into Ratchet’s glare with a grin. “You’re trying to reassure me for something that happened over four million vorns ago. It’s cute.” He bunted Ratchet’s cheek lightly. “I like it.”

Some of Ratchet’s irritation melted away. “Don’t go saying things like that where people can hear you,” he grumbled, uncomfortable with the compliments. “They won’t believe you anyway. They know better.”

“Oooo… blackmail. I could get  _ someone _ to believe me,” Drift grinned. Ratchet felt his hand gently, reassuringly, stroking his plating. “Rodimus would believe me. Perceptor too. And Whirl would announce it over the PA system whether he believed me or not.”

“Fortunately, no one would believe  _ him,”  _ Ratchet said, though Drift wasn’t wrong in thinking he could get Whirl to do something like that just “for funsies”. 

“First Aid would believe him,” Drift almost singsonged back.

“Just keep your delusions about my soft, cuddly nature to yourself, would you?” Ratchet rolled his optics. “First Aid is compromised when it comes to that menace,” he said, though that wasn’t really true. He was doing just fine keeping their little fling from interfering with his work, even if he had showed a  _ little _ favoritism during the cough outbreak. Ratchet knew he wouldn’t really believe something just because Whirl said it. Of course, he’d probably just believe Drift outright, but that was another matter. “He was all over him earlier, fussing about his injuries. Probably still is,” since Whirl actually  _ let  _ First Aid treat him without fighting every step of the way.

“I saw the casualty report. It looked like he could use some fussing. How is he?”

“Honestly? Better than I expected when I first heard he was in Rung’s office.” Ratchet sighed, not exactly relieved to be talking about this, but glad to be off the previous topic. “Fort Max was not in a good place, and Whirl likes to provoke. I thought we’d be bringing him back in pieces. Impaled and sporting a smashed helm is a far cry from dismembered.” Not pleasant by any means, of course, but still. “They all came out of it far better than I thought they would — physically, anyway.”

“That’s good.” Drift sighed too. “We’re going to have to do something with Fortress Maximus. There’s definitely an argument to be made for this being a freak psychotic break, but it’s the kind of break we can’t afford a repeat of. I suppose that means talking to Rung to see how likely it is to happen again.” He wrinkled his nasal ridge. “Always fun.”

“I know he wants to go down to the brig and talk to Max soon,” Ratchet said, having heard from First Aid how Rung had been during the repairs to his thumb. “He isn’t afraid of him losing control again, just concerned how he’s handling what he did. I guess they’ve been working on his trauma during their sessions; he didn’t give First Aid any details, but apparently he thinks this might have been a turning point.”

“Good for him, but we still need to do something.” Drift let himself slowly tip over until he flopped down into Ratchet’s lap. “You’re comfy.”

“Really? That’s comfy for you?” It wouldn’t have been for Ratchet, if he was in Drift’s position. “Must be nice being so flexible.” 

“I haven’t even  _ begun _ to show off my…  _ flexibility.” _ Drift leered. “Pet my finials?”

Ratchet chuckled and indulgently started petting. “I won’t argue that something needs to be done, but  _ you  _ don’t have to be the one to do it, do you? Not before you get a full off-shift, at least?”

“No. Not before then.” Ratchet couldn’t see Drift’s optics anymore, but he saw their glow slowly dimming as he somehow relaxed even further into Ratchet’s lap. “That feels really good…” His engine rumbled, a smooth, contented idle.

“Does it? I should probably stop then,” Ratchet said teasingly.

“Mean. I thought Autobots were supposed to be the nice ones.”

“Not me. I’m not nice, remember?” But Ratchet didn’t actually stop working his hands over Drift’s finials. He was comfortable like this too, and was glad they weren’t going to be interrupted anytime soon.

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	6. Chapter 6

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.

It was the last full off-shift they had together for a while. Drift was constantly busy. Every time Ratchet saw him, it was only for a few stolen moments between being called away for something or other. Ship’s security things, Ratchet guessed, given one very exasperated comment about how Red Alert never recharged that Drift made as he “boosh”ed Ratchet goodbye.

Which wouldn’t have been so bad if Ratchet had been  _ half _ as busy.

There were the normal bumps and dings that always happened on a ship like this. Barfights, sparring, interfacing mishaps (looking at you, Chromedome and Rewind!)… Some mechs held a party at Swerve’s that the officers — even officers as famously uninterested in enforcing stupid rules as Ratchet — didn’t get invited to, and several mechs reported to medbay with “mysterious” headaches and other system errors the next cycle. Things  _ were  _ happening, but the simple fact was: with three competent medics taking shifts, it was a pretty light workload. Ratchet would be intensely grateful for their presence next time they were in a combat situation and had multiple critical injuries to treat at once, since First Aid and Ambulon were major reasons no one had  _ died _ during Fort Max’s rampage. But for normal, cycle-to-cycle incidents, the  _ Lost Light _ really didn’t need more than one medic. 

Ratchet took the opportunity to start training First Aid in the finer points of ward management. He already knew a lot of it, so it didn’t keep Ratchet as busy as he would have liked, but there were a few particulars of running a ship’s medbay that First Aid still needed to master. Even Ambulon picked up some things that were new to him.

Then there was the unexpected result of the Fort Max debacle Ratchet was keeping an optic on: Whirl had started stalking Ambulon. Waking up in the medbay with First Aid fussing over both of them had apparently clued him in to the fact that his new squeeze came with some baggage in the form of a platonic BFF. Having come through some sort of psychological “breakthrough” of his own while being beat up by Fortress Maximus, Whirl had decided he needed to investigate and then “befriend” Ambulon in the most creepy, obnoxious, and dysfunctional way Ratchet could imagine.

Ratchet had offered to get him to back off (read, “beat the fragger to within a micron of his life  _ himself _ for harassing his medical staff!”) but Ambulon said he was fine, he’d dealt with worse, and actually he was kind of flattered.  _ Ambulon was weird, _ was what Ratchet got out of the conversation, but as long as all three of them were fine with the situation, it wasn’t any of his business. They were adult mechs and could work it out themselves.

Deprived of the opportunity to meddle, Ratchet started working with Swerve on getting his bar up to the new health code, which Rodimus had bullied Ultra Magnus into accepting as adequate. Technically he was supposed to be working with Drift on this, but Drift was busy and Ratchet was more than capable of bullying Swerve into compliance without help.

“It doesn’t matter that you can’t reach them,” he said for what had to be the hundredth time. Fine, Swerve was short, and he stored things he didn’t use all the time on high shelves. All perfectly good. Until he started ignoring the stuff when it came to rotating stock. “That’s what stools are for. I’m tall enough to check the labels easily when I do an inspection, and so is Ultra Magnus.” The tallest mech on the ship was not going to miss the top shelves. If anything, Ultra Magnus was more likely to miss any messes hidden underneath the bar counter, which was approximately the same height as his knee. Except it was  _ Ultra Magnus, _ and if there was a mess anywhere in the room, he would find it. “You don’t get a pass on this.”

“It’ll be fine, Ratch!” Swerve waved his concerns off as he washed some of the less often used cocktail glasses for the first time, probably, since he’d opened the place. “I’ll get up there when I can.”

“That’s not what you agreed to. You agreed to abide by the new health regulations —  _ all of them  _ — in exchange for not getting shut down. This isn’t a joke.” Ratchet gestured at the out of date labels on the canisters above his head, some of which had been turned toward the wall so they wouldn’t be obvious; it kind of negated Swerve’s argument that he just hadn’t gotten to them. “Do you know how difficult it was to get Ultra Magnus to accept anything less than putting you out of business immediately? You could have been stuck on rivet duty instead of tending the bar, if you managed to stay out of the brig.”

“I don’t mind rivet duty,” Swerve hummed as he started drying the cups.

“You would if it was all you were doing for the rest of our voyage. Outside in the vacuum of space, all by yourself with no one to talk to…” Swerve loved to talk. Whatever he was saying now, Ratchet knew a single cycle on rivet duty alone would be enough to change his mind. “Figure out a way to keep those up to date, or I’ll give you a demonstration.”

“You wouldn’t. You hate assigning punishment details.”

“I also hate arguing with mechs who are being stubborn for no reason.” True, Ratchet didn’t like assigning punishment details because he didn’t like having to defend his decisions when someone inevitably questioned them, and he didn’t like being responsible for following up on them, but Swerve was pushing his luck. 

“It’s not—”

“Ratchet! There you are,” Drift called, looking into the otherwise abandoned bar. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I wasn’t exactly making a secret of where I was,” Ratchet said, turning to the welcome distraction. “Did you need something?”

“Some help with something. Sorry, Swerve,” he addressed the minibot who’d paused in washing and drying cups to listen to their conversation. “I’m going to need to steal the CMO for a while.”

Swerve shrugged. “We were just finishing up, I think. So an ex-Decepticon walks into a bar…”

“Really?” Ratchet rounded on him. “I don’t know where you were going with that, but I’ve got a punchline for you: he walks into the bar and witnesses the bartender being cited for health code violations and sentenced to a cycle of rivet duty.”

“Awww…  _ Drift?” _ Swerve turned his pleading visor to the ship’s third in command. 

Drift shrugged. “If Ratchet’s citing you, I’m not going to countermand it. It’s only a cycle; get to it.”

Still grumbling, Swerve put his cups down and trudged out the door.

“Next time, don’t argue with me!” Ratchet called after him. “Now, what was it you needed? Don’t worry, I can write up the citation later,” he said to Drift.

“So, uh…” He rocked on his heels, somehow making the nervous gesture graceful as well. “Apparently Autobot litigation requires an advocate for the defense…?”

“It does, yes.” It wouldn’t be a fair hearing without representation on both sides. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Rodimus kind of wants Fortress Maximus’ hearing wrapped up before we reach the Circle of Light, which, yeah, sure, no problem, makes sense, but… Ireallyhavenoideahowit’ssupposedtowork.” After that rush of words, Drift paused and Ratchet watched him engage in that short, micro-meditation technique he used when he needed to calm himself. Drift  _ usually _ didn’t get visibly upset, calming himself before his worries could show themselves, and the fact that they were showing now, despite his efforts, told Ratchet that Drift was practically panicked. “I’ve read the Code. I know all the rules, but  _ how?” _

“How… what? How do you act as the defense?” With Rodimus as the judge, the hearing wasn’t likely to be very long, or very formal (no matter what Ultra Magnus would prefer). “You just present whatever you think will help the defendant. Who’s prosecuting?”

“Ultra Magnus.” Which Ratchet had to admit made sense. They didn’t exactly have any JAG officers on board, so it sounded like the jobs had defaulted to the two other officers. “I’m doomed.”

“No, you’re not. You know everyone involved and how they operate — Ultra Magnus will cite regulations by subparagraphs and clauses in list format, Rodimus will tune him out until he gets bored and tells him to get to the point, and Fort Max will sit there being cooperative and quiet.” He’d been very apologetic to Rung when the psychiatrist went down to the brig to talk to him, and, from what Ratchet had heard, perfectly willing to accept the consequences of his actions, whatever they turned out to be. “This isn’t about determining guilt, it’s about determining appropriate punishment. All you have to do is bring up anything that might help mitigate his sentence.”

Drift kind of looked at him blankly. “Mitigate…?”

Why was this so difficult? It wasn’t a hard concept. “You’re arguing for Rodimus to be lenient with him. Bring in evidence and witnesses to justify a lighter sentence in accordance with the Code. Rung will vouch for him,” and he’d be honest about what kind of danger he still represented to the ship, “and he didn’t actually kill anyone.”

Drift finally noticed how one of his hands was hovering near his sword and pulled it away. It didn’t seem to help, because a moment later he started pacing around the empty bar. “Yes. I remember that. Psychotic breaks get lighter punishments than deliberate mishaps. That’s right. That’s part of the Code. So I get Rung to say that’s what it is? But Ultra Magnus’ll try and argue that Rung is biased since he was in danger during the incident. Biased testimony isn’t reliable.”

“He’s still the only mech on the ship who specializes in that sort of thing, and he saw Max before and after the incident, not just during.” As small as their numbers had gotten over the course of the war, there was practically no such thing as completely unbiased testimony anymore. “I can’t build your case for you, but if I was you, I’d focus less on what Ultra Magnus might say to tear down your defense and more on making sure you present things in a way that Rodimus will hear and take into account.” Which Drift should have no problem doing, because he already did it  _ all the time.  _ “What are you so afraid of? You’re not the one going on trial.”

“The only Autobot trial I thought I’d ever have to worry about was my own, where,” Drift quirked a smile that didn’t do anything to hide his worry behind the joke, “the only thing  _ I _ had to do was be heroically defiant until — depending on which nightmare I was having at the time — either Prowl or Optimus Prime shot me in the spark. I don’t want to screw this up for him!”

“You’re not going to screw it up.” Ratchet walked over to where Drift was pacing and stopped him, placing a hand on each of his shoulders so he couldn’t turn away. “You know what happened, and you know the Code. Better than I do when it comes to arguing specific points, in fact. Line up facts with clauses, translate things into regular speech so Rodimus doesn’t drown in legalese, and you’ll be fine.”

“Write to my audience. I can do that.” He did his short meditation again, and Ratchet could practically feel tension run out of his frame. Not all of it, but some. Then Drift turned his optics back on. He still looked a little lost. “What if I miss something?”

“Then you miss something,” Ratchet said calmly. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit, but no one’s life is at stake here if you make a mistake. If you’re that worried though,” he squeezed his hands on Drift’s shoulders, “you can always run your arguments past someone before the hearing. I’m willing to be a test audience, if you need one.”

“Thanks, Ratchet.” Because his hands were still on his shoulders, Ratchet felt it when Drift’s hand clenched again, but this time he controlled the impulse and released it almost immediately. “I think I will.”

“Good.” Ratchet smiled encouragingly. “Why don’t you go get started on that? I have a citation to write up, and a sign to put on the door to this place to let everyone know their bar is closed until its owner stops being an uncooperative doorstop.”

“Sure.” Drift pulled Ratchet into a hug and quickly bunted their crests together. “Thanks.”

“Happy to help,” Ratchet replied without his usual sarcasm. He could put up with legal prepwork if it meant getting some time with Drift. He missed it already.

Drift didn’t seem particularly willing to end the hug, but he eventually did, drawing back slowly until they were at a more appropriate conversational distance for two officers, rather than two lovers. “I’ll see you later then. I need to talk to Rung again,” he wrinkled his nasal ridge. “I’m more ‘stable’ than I was last time I had a mandatory update to my psych profile, but he still wants to  _ talk _ about it.”

“I think he’s just in the habit of trying to sneak evals on everyone whenever he can after working with so many mechs who evaded them.” 

“Which of course  _ I _ never did,” Drift said, rather insincerely. “So I don’t know why he’s ambushing me.”

“Too much time with the rest of the Wreckers?” Ratchet suggested, because it certainly wasn’t like  _ he  _ evaded his appointments. Nope. Never.

“Probably.”

“Pretend I’m waiting for you at a specific time if you need an excuse to leave,” Ratchet offered. “He can’t keep you if you’ve already got another appointment.” 

“Noted.” 

Drift hovered for a moment longer, hesitant to leave. He reached out his hand and gave Ratchet’s a brief squeeze. Unwillingness etched over his frame, he let go and turned away. “Tonight,” he promised.

“Tonight.” Ratchet could work with that.

With that to look forward to, he set about following up on what he’d done about Swerve.

He (only a  _ little _ belatedly) filed the citation and assigned Swerve his cycle of rivet duty.  _ Alone. _ That was important. It was safer, and thus standard practice, for troublemakers assigned that duty to serve it together when there was more than one of them, but if Swerve had someone to talk to, it wouldn’t make the impact Ratchet wanted. Then he closed the bar until further notice, using his authority as an officer to lock the room so no one would be sneaking in there to drink. The other officers could unlock it, but the only one Ratchet would maybe have to argue with over it was Rodimus. 

Fun. Not.

The last thing he did before heading back to the medbay was put the promised sign on the door. Swerve was probably already busy telling everyone how mean and unfair Ratchet was, and he was  _ not _ going to let this get turned around on him. Swerve’s was closed because  _ Swerve  _ had screwed up, and if the crew wanted their bar back, they would pressure him to comply with regulations so this didn’t happen again.

Accordingly, the sign said, just as he’d told Drift:  _ Closed until the owner stops being an uncooperative doorstop. _

Ratchet shunted the first mech who called to complain to him into his HUD’s circular file, and entered the medbay in a much better mood than he’d expected to be in after arguing with Swerve. 

He had to stop and stare, though, at the sight of Ambulon sitting on one of the medberths, doing his reports, while Whirl picked flakes of his paint off with his over-large pincers. Ambulon was studiously ignoring him, though he’d clearly been at it for awhile. The floor around them was covered with little flecks of discarded paint, a testament to Whirl’s persistence and Ambulon’s patience.

Ratchet opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, thinking better of it. This was not his problem, and he did not want to be involved. If Ambulon wanted help, he would ask for it. Ratchet would drop a reminder that if he needed help with anything he could come to him, but not when Whirl was right there. 

In the meantime, he had some work he needed to get done before meeting with Drift. He didn’t want any interruptions that weren’t shipwide emergencies, even if all they were doing was helping Drift prepare for the hearing. He settled in the office to get it done.

He had moved on from work to recreational reading in his quarters by the time Drift arrived. “Come in,” he said, answering the ping by opening the door and setting his datapad aside. “How did it go with Rung?”

“I’m ‘adjusting to a command position very well’,” Drift scoffed. “I can do command!”

“Better than Rodimus,” Ratchet muttered. “So he did try to turn the conversation onto you, I take it.”

“Rodimus is the captain,” Drift protested with an irritated flare of his vents. “He’s who we need leading this quest.”

Ratchet held up his hands. “I’m not trying to start anything. My issues are with his management style, not his position.” For all he grumbled about him, Rodimus wasn’t completely incompetent. He just took a lot of handholding, which was something Ratchet didn’t have much patience for in anyone, captain or no. 

With a huff, Drift’s armor relaxed. “Yeah. Rung wanted a session,” he said, dropping the issue of Rodimus readily enough. It wasn’t like Ratchet’s opinion was a secret. Neither was Drift’s for that matter. It was just one of those things they’d have to continue to choose not to argue over. “That office is a  _ trap.” _

“You’re not the first to call it that,” Ratchet said, relaxing. He’d overheard Whirl complaining about Rung tricking him more than once. “Did he get you to actually commit to coming back for a session?”

“Slaggit,  _ yes.” _

Ratchet moved over a bit as Drift flopped onto the berth next to him. “At a specific time?”

“With three different back up dates, in case there’s an emergency,” Drift confirmed, leaning against Ratchet. 

“That’s… thorough.” More thorough than Rung usually was with Ratchet. Just how often had “emergencies” coincided with Drift’s appointments in the past? He hadn’t been with the Wreckers long enough to need to dodge  _ that _ many evals, had he? “Guess that means you’re stuck.”

“Apparently. But at least I got the bare bones of a defense put together. I hope.” Drift’s field flickered with  _ anxiety. _

Ratchet wrapped an arm around him. “Let’s hear it then. I’m sure it’s better than you think.” Drift cared too much, was trying too hard to do it right, for it not to be.

“Okay. So.” Drift’s hands fluttered, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I’m asserting that Fortress Maximus is due lesser sanctions on account of diminished mental capacity at the time of — and which in fact, caused — the incident. Further, I argue that even in the midst of his psychotic break, he avoided doing damage as much as his mental state allowed him to. And finally, that it was an isolated incident, unlikely to repeat itself.” Drift paused for a klik, waiting for Ratchet to jump up in with any disapproval, then continued. “To conclude, I have a list of recommendations regarding Fortress Maximus’ sentencing.”

“That’s simple, straightforward, and to the point. Do you have evidence to back up your assertion that the rampage was the result of a one-time psychotic break?”

“Rung is a well respected psychiatrist, with experience dealing with both combat trauma and circumstances like those Fortress Maximus lived through,” a nice sidestep of the word  _ torture. _ “He is also Fortress Maximus’ primary psychiatrist and has familiarity with his mental state, in specific.”

“And he’s willing to testify to that effect? ” 

“He is.” Drift finally smiled. “We’ve got it planned out. Know my audience, right? Rodimus isn’t the only one I need to write for.”

“Ah. You have a strategy for handling the prosecution then.” Ratchet chuckled. Good; Because how things were worded was going to matter; Ultra Magnus could and would pick apart semantics and technicalities. “As long as you aren’t asking for anything outrageous in terms of concessions, I think you’ve put together a good approach.”

“Hopefully. The Code’s not exactly precise on that point.” Drift looked down at his nervously fluttering hands and consciously stilled them. “It seems to imply there’s a maximum legal punishment, but no minimum one. Perceptor helped me come up with some ideas: being confined to ‘base’, no shore leave or shore leave stipend, disabling that giant gun of his. Stuff like that. I mean, I really don’t want this to happen again, and some sort of precautions are needed, even if this will be a one-time thing.”

“Precautions are needed for more than the possibility of a repeat occurrence,” Ratchet said, gently covering Drift’s hands with his own. “The crew needs reassurance that they’re being protected, and while I’m no shrink, I know Fort Max needs to feel like he’s been punished in order to process his guilt.”

“Okay, sure. I can do that.” Drift nodded. “As the defense, I’m of the opinion that he shouldn’t just be locked in the brig indefinitely, right?”

“Right. That would be excessive punishment in the case of someone suffering from a psychotic break.” It would be an excessive punishment for someone who  _ hadn’t _ suffered a psychotic break too, really, if they hadn’t done any permanent damage. Brig sentences needed to come with durations. “In this case, excessive brig time wouldn’t aid in his recovery, which makes it ineffective, and therefore inappropriate as a deterrent to future infractions.” 

“Okay. Aid in recovery, inappropriate as a deterrent…” Drift’s hands twitched, but he didn’t pull them free to start nervously fluttering again. Instead he turned them so he was holding Ratchet’s properly and his thumbs started tracing a nonsense pattern across the red plating. “I can do that.” 

“Yes, you can. Ask Rung about rehabilitating POWs.” The war being over didn’t change the fact that Fort Max had been a prisoner — a prisoner subjected to brutal, ongoing torture — right up until his miraculous awakening on Delphi. 

“Rehabilitating prisoners of war… got it.” Drift sighed. “Ultra Magnus explained that this was the minimum needed for a truly just system, which, yes, totally agree  _ that’s _ needed, but it’s so  _ complicated.” _

“Complicated? This is just a small, one session hearing.” Compared to a full trial, the kind that went on for cycles and involved multiple witnesses and statements from everyone even peripherally involved, this was nothing. “Have you really never taken part in something like this before?”

“No. Sort of… Not really. Some of the U students were interested in law, and we exchanged essays, but outside of the theory? No. And we were writing more about equal application of laws, more than the specifics of how trials should work.” Drift sighed. “I was arrested a few times before I met you, but usually got kicked out of the jail with the rest of the addicts and leakers when they got sick of us taking up space. I only went to prison once, for about a vorn. I  _ may _ have gotten a trial then, but was just too stoned to remember it.”

He was conspicuously  _ not  _ mentioning anything from his time with the Decepticons, Ratchet noticed. That was a lot of time to ignore, and Ratchet knew that Dri— that Deadlock had experience with Decepticon justice. 

…Maybe he was ignoring it because that version of justice was so far off the Autobot take on it that there was no point in bringing it up now. 

“Well, that makes this a good first case then,” Ratchet said, sidestepping that minefield himself. He didn’t know much about how Decepticon justice had worked beyond the execution squads, so if Drift didn’t feel it was worth bringing up, it probably wasn’t. “Like I said, it’s one of the simpler scenarios you could be dealing with, even if it seems complicated now.”

“Well that’s good. I don’t want to let Fort Max down.” Drift deflated, leaning against Ratchet. “I feel like I just got assigned to, I don’t know, negotiate a peace treaty between two alien nations or something else I’m equally unprepared for.”

“You sort of did get assigned to do something you aren’t really prepared for,” Ratchet said, since it was technically true. He wasn’t worried about it, though. Drift was a quick study, and he’d already proven he was willing to put in the effort. “But there’s a job that needs to be done, and you’re in the unenviable position of being the one who gets to step up and learn as you go.”

“Because it’s expected of me as an Autobot officer? This is important, and Ultra Magnus is probably right, but Fort Max deserves someone better than me for his advocate.”

“Fort Max could do a lot  _ worse  _ than you for an advocate.”

“Right. I’m sure everyone wants the ex-Decepticon handling their defense,” Drift muttered. He lifted himself off Ratchet long enough to shake himself, loosening his plating from where he’d clamped it down against his myomer substructures from the stress. “I’m fine. I’m just stressed. I’ll be glad when the hearing is over.”

“So will I.” Whatever the outcome, it would mean an end to Drift’s worrying about whether or not he was up to the task, and an end to the uncertainty eating away at Fortress Maximus along with his guilt. “All the more reason to get it over with before we reach Theophany, right?”

Drift brightened. “Right. I can’t wait for you to meet the Circle, Ratchet. You’re all going to drive each other  _ nuts.” _

“I don’t doubt it,” Ratchet huffed, not exactly looking forward to it. Unlike some of their other detours though, this one actually had a chance of furthering their quest. He’d just have to deal with them, and they with him. “What about you? Are you looking forward to seeing them again?”

“I am. They didn’t have to try and take me in; Wing could have left me on the surface after I was injured. Primus knows I wasn’t exactly grateful for the rescue.” The stroking of Drift’s thumb across Ratchet’s hand turned less nervous, more deliberate, as the topic changed. “They’re good people.”

“Good people with a history of bad decisions. Depending on your perspective,” Ratchet added, in an attempt to be fair. The Circle weren’t the only ones to choose neutrality in the war, and that was their right, even if Ratchet couldn’t imagine making that choice himself. At least they hadn’t come back to Cybertron, leaching off the Autobots’ efforts to ensure they didn’t become Decepticon slaves and claiming their neutrality made them superior to both factions once the fighting was over, like the NAILs had. “I already know Dai Atlas and I have differing opinions on how to do the most good.”

“That’s okay. Dai Atlas and I have a lot of differing opinions on how to do the most good, too.” Drift bunted Ratchet’s shoulder. “I don’t think he’ll hold it against you.”

“And if he decides to try to convert me?”

“Tantrums worked pretty well on him,” Drift flashed a bright grin, “and I  _ know _ you’re good at them,” he teased. “Sulking worked better on… on Wing,” he stuttered over the name briefly, then shrugged. “But of course the Great Ratchet  _ never _ sulks.”

“He doesn’t throw tantrums either,” Ratchet said loftily, the humor in his field a stark contrast to his words. “Tantrums and sulking are undignified and unbecoming of an experienced CMO.”

“You’ll live,” Drift teased back. “And they were pretty unbecoming of a Decepticon Commander too, but that didn’t stop me.”

“Set a precedent for me, did you?”

“Only if you want,” Drift said seriously. “I respect Dai Atlas a great deal. I may even owe him, to some extent, but it’s not his place to approve or disapprove of my friends.” He bunted Ratchet on the cheek. “Or my lovers.”

“Just like it’s not my place to disapprove of your friends?” It didn’t sound like Drift had meant it as a warning, but it was only fair. Ratchet could try to curb his tongue around Drift when it came to the Circle, the same way he really should be doing about Rodimus… so long as Dai Atlas didn’t push the issue. “I’ll do my best to give them the benefit of the doubt, how about that?”

“Thank you. Have to admit, I’m kind of looking forward to it, though,” Drift said with a chuckle. “That argument will be  _ epic.” _

“And pointless,” Ratchet was willing to admit in advance. “I’m not changing my opinion, and something tells me he won’t be changing his.”

“Nope.” Still, the thought made  _ amusement _ skitter through Drift’s field, making it feel fizzy.

“Which essentially makes it free entertainment for you.”

“Yep.”

Ratchet laughed. “Just remember you asked for it.”

Drift chuckled. “Speaking of entertainment… Did you know Whirl’s in the medbay with Ambulon right now?”

“…I’m aware, and I’m not getting involved,” Ratchet said resolutely. “Was he still picking at his paint when you walked by?” 

“Yes.” Drift laughed outright, seemingly not as worried or incredulous as Ratchet about the whole thing. “Then Ambulon told him to sit,” he mimicked the hand motion, sharply pointing to the ground, “while he helped me find something and Whirl  _ did it.” _

“He  _ what?”  _

“He sat. On the ground. Right where Ambulon told him to.”

What was the world coming to? Ratchet shook his head, disbelieving. “If he can get him to repeat that trick, I’ll be the only medic left that Whirl doesn’t listen to.”

“I’d say the odds are fifty-fifty in the short term and inevitable in the long term, as long as First Aid and Ambulon tolerate his antics.” Drift’s field was fizzy with amusement again, which made Ratchet huff in half-sparked irritation. He was getting far too much enjoyment out of things that annoyed  _ him. _

“If they’ve moved on to the point where Whirl and Ambulon are working out how to be ‘friends’,” Ratchet used the term loosely, because  _ Whirl,  _ “it means he and First Aid are trying to make their fling into an actual relationship.” That was going to upset all the odds in the betting pool, and probably start a whole new one: when would Whirl actually admit that was what was going on? At least it meant Ratchet had won all the money (which he had totally not bet because betting was against the rules) in the old pool. He’d been the only one to (totally not) put money on the fling going on indefinitely; even Perceptor, who had bet that it would take most of a vorn, had bet First Aid would get sick of Whirl eventually and throw him out of his life. It might take that long for Ratchet to get his winnings, but he’d won, no doubt about it.

“I think it’s good.” Drift chuckled, oblivious to the direction of Ratchet’s thoughts. “Whirl’s always happier when he’s got people around him.”

“Really. He sure goes out of his way to make that obvious.” But even as he said it, Ratchet was aware that Whirl had been less destructively obnoxious since spending more time with others on the ship — and not just First Aid. He was becoming a semi-regular fixture at movie nights, last Ratchet had heard, and then there was Rung. He’d gone so far as to call him a friend, with the actual word and everything. “I’ve got no problem assigning his care to them if it makes him happier. It’d certainly make  _ me _ happier.”

“Do you really think Whirl survived in the Wreckers as long as he did by being as uncooperative with  _ every _ medic as he is with you?” Drift asked. “Topspin could only do so much. Especially for a helo. Rotaries are notoriously difficult to repair.”

Ratchet didn’t think Whirl necessarily  _ tried  _ to survive so much as  _ managed to  _ by a combination of skill and luck — luck Whirl himself probably considered bad. Which was an unexpectedly sobering thought, when he considered the implications. Ratchet had come on this voyage not to find the Knights of Cybertron, but to do some last good before his usefulness ran out; Whirl, likewise, had been looking for a place to go out in a blaze of glory. It was odd to feel he had anything in common with Whirl, but in a certain respect, he did: both in their initial reasons for joining the crew, and in their improved outlooks since.

Some of that revelation probably made its way into his field, but Ratchet didn’t verbalize it. “Perceptor said he enjoys annoying me,” he said instead after a moment. “He enjoys annoying everyone, though I suppose he must be capable of setting that aside sometimes.”

“Right on both counts.” Drift shrugged. “I didn’t mind, really. I mean, on the creepy and obnoxious scale, Whirl barely even rated at the time, so he and I were,” he shrugged again, “sorta close. Ish. For a time.”

“As close to Whirl gets to anyone? Got,” Ratchet rephrased, since he was clearly making impressive strides in that department. “I was under the impression you were closest with Perceptor.”

“I was. Jealous?”

“No.” He thought back to the conversation he’d had with the mech in ISO. “If anything, I think I should probably feel intimidated.”

“Hmmm? Of trying to live up to Perceptor?” Drift sounded incredulous. “You don’t have to. You’re perfect as you. Perceptor and I… we really liked each other, don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t. Wasn’t.” One of his hands wiggled out from under Ratchet’s so it could wave vaguely in the air, as though trying to pluck the thought from the space in front of them. “I needed the security of having a protector, and Perceptor prefers negotiating relationships. We liked each other enough that it was enjoyable to trade. We’re still friends, but we haven’t interfaced in a long time.”

“Thank you, for sharing that,” Ratchet said genuinely, but he couldn’t help an amused smile. “That’s not quite what I meant though. He made some rather pointed comments that implied I should be afraid of incurring his wrath when it comes to you.”

Drift blinked. Ratchet felt his frame still in surprise. “Perceptor gave you the  _ shovel talk?” _

Ratchet grinned wider. “Yep.”

“Primus, that’s hilarious.” Drift collapsed into a fit of giggles. “Too funny. I’m going to have to tell Rodimus that. He’ll get a kick out of it.”

“I was rather amused myself,” Ratchet admitted. The whole thing had been slightly surreal. He might’ve expected something of the sort from Rodimus, and Whirl threatening him wouldn’t have been anything new, but  _ Perceptor? _ Yet despite that, “I meant it when I promised him I’d be careful though.”

Ratchet felt Drift’s frame heat as  _ shy embarrassment _ and  _ pleasure _ blushed across his field. 

“You better,” Drift said, deliberately casual, when he’d gotten control of his reaction. “Perceptor doesn’t make idle threats.” He bunted Ratchet again, playfully. “I’ll be careful too. I like you. A lot.”

That had Ratchet warming slightly with his own  _ affection/embarrassment.  _ “Good, because I happen to like you too. A lot.” A lot more than he’d thought he would when they’d first started this.

“Can I stay here for a while?”

“If you don’t have to run off somewhere.” Ratchet adjusted his arms around Drift so that the only way he could leave was to dislodge him first. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Can stay for a couple of joors, unless Rodimus calls,” Drift said as he made himself comfortable, setting his weapons aside so he’d fit better, in Ratchet’s arms. He pulled a datapad and a stylus from his subspace, and started poking. Catching a glimpse, Ratchet saw it had two windows open, side by side. One — the one Drift was scrolling through right now — was definitely the Autobot Code. The other was probably the defense he was putting together.

“While you’re working on that,” Ratchet decided to venture, and pulled out the datapad Drift had given him, “I don’t suppose there are any other articles you’d care to share?”

“Lots.” Drift looked at Ratchet out of the corner of his optics. “I kept it up until I left, and there were other mechs still posting their own writings as well. I had more, in my quarters on Turmoil’s ship, but only saved the stuff Digress participated in to my hard drive.” His field turned rueful. “When you say ‘care to share’, do you mean another carefully curated, non-inflammatory selection? Because I don’t have another one of those ready. If I transfer a bunch of stuff to your datapad now, you might get some that’s… written by fanatics.”

“I had sort of assumed that,” Ratchet said. He’d even assumed Drift was personally responsible for some of the more fanatical stuff, even if he hadn’t been known for it quite the way some of the others he’d mentioned were. Ratchet still wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was ready to read any of it, but it wasn’t like ignoring its existence would make it any less a part of who Drift was. “Don’t worry, I know how to stop reading something if it’s upsetting me.”

Drift hesitated, long enough that Ratchet thought he’d refuse. Then he plucked the datapad from Ratchet’s hands; his hands shook slightly, but his field turned  _ determined. _ “I’ll give you everything I have. If I’m burning bridges tonight, no point in keeping the flames down.” His wrist cover popped open, and he connected one of his networking cords to the datapad. Blue optics flickered as he started transfering files.

It took a while. Ratchet wasn’t surprised; Drift had said there were millions of vorns worth of text and articles and who knew what else to copy, and a single cord only had so much bandwidth. “I hope you know I asked in the interest of building bridges, not burning them,” he said softly, his hand coming up to cover Drift’s in wordless thanks for his trust. 

“It’s not as organized as the stuff I gave you before,” Drift said quietly. He took Ratchet’s hand, latching onto the comfort, even as he struggled to appear unaffected. “The table of contents uses my filenames, which don’t always match actual titles. Nothing I can do about that in a hurry. I was kind of locked in my quarters with nothing else to do when I put the first one together.” He offered Ratchet a weak smile.

Ratchet smiled back. “I wonder who could have ordered that.”

“First Aid,” Drift answered promptly.

“Okay, technically, yes,” Ratchet chuckled. “But I stood by his decision.”

“I hope you don’t think I’ll resent you for it.” Drift made himself comfortable again, even if there was a slight desperate edge to his insistence on cuddling now, and went back to his own datapad. “I’m familiar with quarantine procedures. Actually,” his frame stilled as he thought, “I think one of Gleam’s papers was on that, and I remember chuckling the first time I was transferred to a ship and read the regulations because the wording was familiar.”

“Coincidence? Or did the Decepticons draw on the U when they came up with protocols?”

“Has to be the second.” Drift shrugged. “And why not? There weren’t a lot of medics to consult when putting the rules together. Gleam  _ wanted _ his work to grow beyond himself, to be used to help — the Cause, and the mechs fighting for it, and… everyone really. He’d be happy I gave it to you, even if there isn’t anything a paramedic could have known that you don’t.”

“Do you still have many of his publications?” Drift was probably right that they wouldn’t have much to say that he didn’t already know in terms of medicine, but a paramedic who’d actively chosen the Decepticons for moral reasons, rather than as an excuse to indulge in violence or sadism… 

“Yeah. Anything he wrote or participated in is marked with a starburst-glyph, so I could find it easily. His pseud was Glimmer_of_Hope. It’ll all probably offend your delicate atheist sensibilities though.”

“I’m not  _ that  _ sensitive,” Ratchet said, flicking one of Drift’s finials lightly. “But I appreciate the warning.” He was still going to start with Gleam’s writings this time, despite the religious angle. He was a important part of Drift’s past, and Ratchet was curious about  _ why _ someone, especially a medic, would turn to the Decepticons. If he was going to dive into studying the Decepticon Cause as they themselves interpreted it, it only made sense to Ratchet to start with someone he could relate to. 

“Mmm-hmm,” Drift grinned up at Ratchet, then went back to his own work.

Ratchet searched through the new (extremely long) table of contents for the starburst-glyph and clicked on the first one he saw: ✸MercyFlight. Instead of text, he found himself looking at an image file. The photograph was dark around the edges, but otherwise sharp and clear, and on the side it had the range markings from a sniper’s scope. It was easy to see which of the several figures in the photo was Gleam: he was the one perched on the rubble of a collapsed factory, digging through it for survivors. The only helicopter in the scene, his rotors were folded down and splayed across his back like a cape. He was painted all in a light purple color with sparse grey accents that had been scratched and marred by work and dust and smoke, but the medic-red symbols identifying him as a paramedic were as clear and easy to see as his purple optics, only a few shades darker than his paint. One grey frame lay discarded at his feet, but the one he was gently pulling free was very much alive, though Ratchet could see he probably wouldn’t stay that way for long if he didn’t get immediate attention. A stretcher had been laid out on the rubble behind them, the kind meant to attach to a rotary’s skids, to carry a patient quickly to safety.

Ratchet spent some time studying the picture, trying to get an idea of when and where it had been taken. What remained of the factory wasn’t particularly distinctive; it would have fit right in among the industrial sectors of several different cities. Time-wise though, he estimated it was pretty old. Gleam wasn’t sporting a Decepticon insignia anywhere Ratchet could see, and he could see most of him in the frame. That meant he either didn’t have one, or wasn’t wearing it prominently… yet. 

Other than his choice of paint color — an unusual one for a medic, but also too light and  _ soothing _ to fit in amongst the darker purples favored by many Decepticons — Ratchet couldn’t see anything unusual about him. If he had to guess, he’d put Gleam down as forged, but Ratchet knew that there really wasn’t any way of telling a forged mech from one constructed cold by sight. He looked like a standard aerial, fast-response paramedic. Sleeker, more aerodynamic, than Ratchet himself, but, well… It looked like Drift had a type.

Ratchet glanced down at Drift, who appeared to be fully absorbed in his work. Deciding not to disturb him, he moved on to the next entry on the list.

✸TurnOffYourOptics turned out to be the meditation manual Ratchet might have once accused Drift of writing. This one was only barely a religious text, with few mentions of Primus or the other gods. Instead it focused on instruction, example meditation routines (accompanied by embedded audio files to guide someone through the routines, which Ratchet did not listen to), and on the health benefits of regular practice. Gleam referenced and quoted several studies on the subject that Ratchet was familiar with, though they weren’t linked to the manual.

Ratchet couldn’t find fault with it as an instruction manual, and closed that file to open the next.

✸Lied_To _by_ Glimmer_of_Hope was… shocking, after the previous two files. The photograph could have been of any paramedic sent to the site of a disaster, and the manual gave a very calm and in control impression of the writer, whereas this was… impassioned. Frustration almost dripped tangibly from the page. In angry words, Gleam described the conditions of mechs in the mines, the gladiator pits, the slums they lived in. He described mechs dying from preventable diseases because they couldn’t afford any sort of care. Mechs who rusted away under bridges because they couldn’t afford any sort of shelter. Mechs who died from violence, from starvation, from their addictions, from simply wasting away for lack of anything to live for… Gleam had seen it all, and he wanted to  _ help. _

He had an alt mode, a  _ function, _ that determined he was supposed to heal. That he was supposed to carry the sick, the injured, the dying away to where they could get help. That was the purpose Primus himself had given him. But, he wrote, time and time again, he’d been  _ forced _ to ignore the mechs who needed him most.

_ You are being deceived, _ he echoed the famous words, referring not just to those told they could have no function but the one they’d been assigned, but also those “happy” with their place, because they were powerless to apply their knowledge, their skills, their  _ reason for being _ when and where Primus had intended them to. Gleam had wanted to help, to heal and to teach. He hadn’t wanted to be freed from his function, but free to pursue it as  _ he _ felt he should. Being happy with his function, he argued, didn’t make a mech any less a slave to a cruel and horrific system.

A system that needed to change, for everyone’s sake.

Functionalism itself may have arisen out the belief that Primus had created each spark with a purpose, but, he argued vehemently, and with citations to a dozen religious texts, it was  _ not  _ Primus’ will. The idea of divine destiny had become corrupted by mortals, twisted to serve mortal power grabbing. It wasn’t the form, it was the  _ spark _ which had been given its purpose by Primus, and if Primus had given that spark a form suited to its destiny, that was between him and Primus, not the sole value of a mech!

The religious angle was one Ratchet was able to brush aside easily enough, but the core idea of being able to pursue function as a mech saw fit, rather than as the government dictated, stuck in his processor. Reading Gleam’s words brought up memories; old memories, and old frustrations. There had been plenty of times when Ratchet had been forced to do less than he wanted for the mechs around him as well, and it had sat just as badly. He’d felt unnecessarily and unfairly restricted too, and he’d been lucky enough to have certain advantages. Not every medic could boast the support of a senator, after all.

But while he could all too easily empathize with Gleam up to that point, he couldn’t understand his conviction that tearing down the system and violently overturning the Functionalists was the solution to the problem.

He didn’t notice how his field had gone prickly until he registered how Drift had pulled his own in, flush with his plating, in an effort not to feel Ratchet’s reactions to what he was reading. He hadn’t moved, was still focused on the Autobot Code and the defense he was putting together for Fortress Maximus, but to Ratchet’s optics he looked hunched over, subtly braced for a blow.

“I’m not going to suddenly dump you on the floor, you know,” he said, forcing the frustration out of his field in an attempt to reassure Drift. “Reading this makes me wish I could ask questions, engage in the debate and try to understand, but I can’t. I don’t understand some of his conclusions, and I can’t ask him for clarification.”

“Who? What are you reading?” Drift’s shoulders relaxed a bit at the reassurance. “I just don’t want you to hate me for it.”

“Hate you for what? Keeping the article? For agreeing with it?” Ratchet shook his head. “I’m not going to hate you because we disagree on something. Hate is something I reserve for actions, not ideas. Though speaking of ideas,” he tilted the datapad so Drift could see where he was, “this one confounds me. How does a mech arguing for his right to exercise a ‘Primus given’ directive to help people not have a problem calling for mechs to die?”

“Because we weren’t ever given anything we didn’t take by force,” Drift answered slowly. “Including that right to help people. Gleam was a paramedic. That meant he actually wasn’t  _ legally _ allowed to carry out complex repairs. His job was to find the injured, stabilize them, and bring them back to hospitals for treatment. That would have been fine, he told me once, if the hospitals would actually take those patients he brought back from the slums and less savory areas. Or, if they did take an addict or gang victim, and the mech couldn’t pay for his treatment… bad things happened. It was only when Gleam rejected the rules he’d been forced to live by that he could actually  _ do _ something, and disobeying the laws to repair people… It put him in conflict with the police and local gangs both. He never sought out a fight, that I know of. Not personally. But that didn’t mean he didn’t see the war as inevitable once enough people had chosen to follow their own destinies, instead of the one laid out for them by the Functionalist Council.”

“But to actively advocate physically attacking the Council? There’s a difference between removing the mechs in power and taking them out.”

“Was there?” Drift challenged, though quietly, keeping his field calm as he did so. “You probably know the old legal system better than I do:  _ was _ there a legal way to remove a sitting senator — most of them, all at once, without killing them — or a legal way of getting rid of the Council? Gleam didn’t think so. Megatron didn’t think so. The U students who focused on law didn’t think so.”

“Not a  _ quick  _ way, no.” The system as it had been was structured so that any changes would have to have been gradual, requiring a slow, comprehensive overhaul of the laws by those in power, and most of them had had no interest in such changes. But that didn’t mean there hadn’t been anyone willing to cooperate. “But we might have had more allies if the Council hadn’t felt pressured to respond.”

“Respond to what?” Again Drift kept his attitude calm, even subdued. “Granted it was before I was recruited, but the government responded to poetry, books, newsletters, legal petitions, charity efforts, and chat room debates by making the movement illegal and arresting Decepticons en masse. We were attacked first, with imprisonment, executions and shadowplay,  _ before _ violence became part of our movement.” 

Ratchet wasn’t surprised to hear Drift using  _ we _ again; he already knew that Drift still identified with the Decepticons, especially those early agitators. There were a lot of Autobots who would see that as a sign of current treason, but Ratchet  _ refused _ to be one of them. This was politics four million vorns old. That wasn’t to say it couldn’t still incite tempers, but it didn’t really matter what Drift had believed then. Or even that he still believed he and the other early ‘Cons had been in the right. As far as Drift’s loyalty was concerned, all that mattered was that he didn’t agree with the Decepticons as they currently were, that he’d taken the Autobot oath and meant it.

Ratchet sighed. “I suspect this is where we run into divergent experiences.” And it had been difficult enough to sort out fact from exaggeration even back then, let alone after so much time had passed. He didn’t want Drift to think he was accusing him of making things up. “From where I was back then, things didn’t look that hopeless, but I’ve been told things were much worse than I thought, much earlier than I thought.”

Drift stayed silent for a long moment, then he relaxed against Ratchet’s plating, wrapping himself up in his arms like a favorite blanket. “You’re the best.”

“I’m what now?” Ratchet blinked down at Drift, surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“You haven’t kicked me off the berth yet,” Drift pointed out. “I don’t expect you to agree with anything in  _ that,” _ he nodded to the datapad, “but almost everyone else I know would’ve freaked out by now.”

Ratchet just hugged Drift in response. “Everyone else likes looking for reasons to fight. Or they’re just so in the habit of looking for reasons to fight that they can’t stop themselves anymore. I’d rather not, if I can help it. Especially when it’s so much nicer with you here.”

Drift’s frame warmed with the  _ happiness _ suffusing his field. “I hope you still feel that way when you get to Oratorio’s Cult of Megatron rants or the annotated copies of  _ Towards Peace.” _

“…I might want to ask you why those are in your collection, yes,” Ratchet said, half joking, but also somewhat serious. He could guess why  _ Megatron’s  _ writings might be something Drift wanted to keep, but the rest… It would depend just how bad it really was. 

“I might or might not have gotten into forum debates with Oratorio over the definition of religion and its function within a Cybertronian’s psyche,” Drift said a little flippantly, downplaying it, but not without a suppressed flicker of  _ amusement _ in his field.

“Mhmm.” Like Ratchet might or might not be betting on the relationships on the ship. “And was he the sort to make actual, thoughtful counterarguments, or fall back on insults?”

“It depended on which buttons I pushed,” Drift smiled up at Ratchet, deliberately flashing his fangs.

“And of course, once you learned which ones set him off, you avoided them.”

“Of course! To do otherwise would have been irritating, annoying, and petty.” This time Drift couldn’t hold in all of his laughter; it escaped into his field and as a quick chuckle.

“Right. Because you’re  _ never _ any of those things,” Ratchet chuckled with him. “Just like me. Look at us, two upstanding, shining examples of civilized mechs.” 

“You, maybe, but I think you’re the first person to ever call me that.” Drift poked at his own datapad, copying something from one window and adding it to the other. 

“Please. No one’s ever accused me of that either,” Ratchet said, settling back to continue reading. Drift had work to do, and he was curious to see what else Gleam had written. There seemed to be quite a variety of things.

Ratchet was halfway through an (admittedly  _ fascinating) _ manual on quick and dirty first aid under pressure — of the sort that would later go on to define a combat medic’s skill set — Drift had called ✸FirstAid101_by_Glimmer_of_Hope when he got a medium priority ping from Ultra Magnus.

_ “What is it?”  _ Ratchet asked, signalling to Drift he was on a call as he opened up a commline.

_ “I would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience,” _ Ultra Magnus answered immediately. 

_ “I’m offshift now. Do you need me to come by your office?”  _ Ratchet suspected the answer was going to be yes, and preemptively shut off his datapad.

_ “Yes.” _

The datapad went back into subspace.  _ “I’ll be there shortly.”  _ He disconnected and looked at Drift. “My turn to run out on you. I need to go, but you can stay if you want.”

“No problem.” Drift smiled as they untangled themselves from each other so Ratchet could stand. Drift held out a hand and gave Ratchet’s a squeeze “I can’t promise I’ll be here when you get back, but if I am… I look forward to it.”

“Here’s hoping,” Ratchet squeezed back. “It is Ultra Magnus though, so it’ll either be over in a matter of kliks, or it’ll take the rest of the shift.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Hoping he wouldn’t need it, Ratchet left his habsuite. If he had to guess, this probably had to do with the trial. What did Ultra Magnus need from him?

Checking the medbay as he walked by revealed Ambulon and a couple of patients, but no Whirl in immediate attendance. Ratchet told himself once again that he didn’t care, and nodded to the other medic as he continued on his way.

Other mechs waved or nodded at Ratchet as he passed them in the hall. Ratchet nodded back, but didn't let anyone draw him into a conversation, no matter how much Trailcutter whined about Swerve’s being closed. The sign on the door had been perfectly explanatory, and Ratchet wasn’t about to take it down until Swerve got his act together.

“Come in,” Ultra Magnus said, his office door sliding open readily at Ratchet’s ping.

“How can I help you?” Ratchet stepped in and let the door close behind him.

“I must inquire about your willingness to testify at Fortress Maximus’ hearing,” the Duly Appointed Enforcer, Etc. said without preamble. Politely, he gestured to the visitor’s chair in front of his desk, inviting Ratchet to sit.

“I am willing,” Ratchet said, taking the seat. “As long as what I’m being called on to testify to is fact, not speculation.”

“Of course,” Ultra Magnus sounded a bit affronted by the very suggestion he would ask anything else. “The damage he caused is fact. As the prosecution, I do not need any more than those facts.” Unspoken was the implication that the defense, dealing with such things as Fort Max’s motives, pesky might-have-beens, and guesswork about future danger, would be the side engaging in  _ speculation. _

Ratchet shrugged. “I’ve been asked to speculate on the stand before. Just wanted to put it out there that it wasn’t something I was willing to do.” Not because he’d expected anything of the sort from Ultra Magnus, but for the sake of clarity. “You’re looking for details about the injuries sustained by his victims?”

“Yes.” Ultra Magnus folded his massive hands together on his desk and leaned forward in a way Ratchet might have seen as earnest on a smaller mech; on him, it looked more like looming. “Rest assured, my only desire is to see justice carried out.” 

“Then we’re on the same page.” It was in everyone’s interests to see things done right in this situation, and Ratchet was fully onboard. “I can get you the charts,”  _ this time, _ he didn’t add. Ultra Magnus wouldn’t appreciate the joke, if he even recognized it as one. “Did you want to go over them now?”

“Yes. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

“I’ll be right back then.” He should have thought to grab them on his way through the medbay in the first place, but it wouldn’t take long to retrieve them now. 

Ratchet had to fend off two more mechs trying to get him to let Swerve’s reopen, but he brushed them off with instructions to talk to the mech himself when he was back from rivet duty. At least they were relatively easy to shake, and no one accosted him when he entered the medbay.

“Something wrong, boss?” Ambulon asked, but he didn’t sound worried.

“Nope, nothing’s wrong. Needed to get something, that’s all.” He glanced over at Ambulon as the files he needed loaded onto a secure datapad. “Has Ultra Magnus contacted either you or First Aid about what happened with Fort Max?”

“We turned in incident reports right after,” the other medic answered. “Otherwise no. Why?”

“He’s starting to build his case for the prosecution at the hearing. We’re going over what he wants me to testify to now, so there’s a chance he’ll reach out to one or both of you next.” Ratchet wasn’t surprised Ultra Magnus had come to him first, as the CMO, but he was thorough enough it also wouldn’t surprise him if he talked to everyone who’d been involved that cycle (Hound included).

“That’s… a little intimidating. I can’t say a trial is ever something I’ve looked forward to.” Ambulon offered a smile as he started to pick at the back of his hand, only to realize that was one of the spots Whirl had picked bare earlier and sigh instead.

“You’d only be involved as a witness, and you’re free to decline even that,” Ratchet told him. “Don’t feel like you have to do it if it’ll make you uncomfortable. Ultra Magnus will have the charts,” he waved the datapad, “with or without any of us there in person, and I’ve already said I would be.”

“I’ll think about it. Who’s defense? That’s an Autobot thing right? Prosecution  _ and _ defense?”

“Yes,” Ratchet said, not taken aback by that after having already talked with Drift. “Ultra Magnus is in charge of the prosecution, and Drift is handling the defense. Rodimus will determine Fort Max’s sentence after hearing from both of them.”

This time Ambulon’s fingers searched out a place at the edge of the peeling areas to pick at. “And witnesses get questioned by both, right?”

“Usually. Sometimes there’s not much point in cross-examining a witness and that part gets skipped over.” Drift probably wouldn’t bother cross-examining him, in fact, since there wasn’t anything Ratchet had to say that Ultra Magnus wouldn’t cover in his questioning.

“I, ah, probably shouldn’t then.” Ambulon’s gaze slid away from Ratchet’s. 

Really? He was more nervous about the potential of Drift questioning him than Ultra Magnus? Ratchet didn’t remark on it. Ambulon was going to have to work out his issues with Drift at some point, but it didn’t need to involve him. “That’s fine. Just let Ultra Magnus know if he asks that you’re not comfortable testifying, and he’ll move on.”

“Thanks for letting me know.” 

“Sure. Let First Aid know too, you’ll probably see him before I do.” Ratchet walked back to the door. “And have him touch up your paint. It’s not holding up at all to two people picking at it.”

So much for not saying anything. Oh well. At least Ambulon’s response of “Yes, sir,” sounded more resigned than offended.

The return trip was blissfully free of anyone whining to him about Swerve’s. Ratchet still expected Rodimus to come begging at some point for him to reopen the bar and let Swerve off with just his rivet duty, but thankfully he didn’t make an appearance yet.

Ultra Magnus’ door opened silently when Ratchet pinged. The mech himself waved Ratchet to the seat with a gesture that indicated he was currently on a call with someone else, so Ratchet sat without interrupting. 

He totally didn’t snoop through Ultra Magnus’ lists and charts while he waited; or, at least, he didn’t touch them. He already knew how Drift was constructing his case, since he’d been helping him, and from what he could see spread out on the desk, Ultra Magnus’ looked like it was more straightforward. He’d compiled lists on several different datapads. Lists of Fortress Maximus’ crimes, matched up with the laws he’d broken. Lists of those same crimes, sorted by his victims. Lists of everyone involved in the incident and whether or not they’d testify. It looked like he had already talked to Whirl and Rung and both had declined, with a note next to Rung’s name stating that he had chosen to testify for the defense. Another datapad had Rung’s name on it at the top, and a list of questions to ask him on cross examination. And yet another stack of datapads had the various incident reports both Ultra Magnus and Drift would be using in their cases.

What he didn’t see was any sign that Ultra Magnus was taking Rodimus into account in putting his case together.

In a more traditional courtroom with a more traditional captain, Ultra Magnus’ approach was definitely the stronger of the two. But the  _ Lost Light _ operated under the Autobot Code only because its crewmembers were (predominantly) Autobots. Technically speaking, the ship was privately owned and privately captained. Rodimus hadn’t been promoted to the role on merit; Ratchet wasn’t sure whether the ship belonged to Drift or Rodimus on paper, but it hardly mattered. Either way, what it meant was that Rodimus was acting as the judge in this case, for good or ill.

Personally — witness for the prosecution or not — Ratchet thought Fort Max deserved to get off lightly. He couldn’t say if Drift  _ writing to his audience _ was going to be enough of a trump card to sway his sentence, but it was the only advantage he had over a legal powerhouse like Ultra Magnus.

“Thank you for waiting,” Ultra Magnus said when he finished his call, pulling Ratchet out of his thoughts. 

“It’s fine.” Ratchet held out the datapad with the patient charts. “The files aren’t large so I’ve put all seven together in the standard format. Some of the injuries were pretty severe, but as you know, none were ultimately fatal.”

“Of course.” Ultra Magnus took the datapad and looked it over briefly, then put it aside to incorporate into his case later. “Now, we should go over what you will say on the stand. I have questions.”

“For me right now, or do you mean the questions you intend to ask at the hearing?”

“Both.” He didn’t smile.

Ratchet resisted the urge to huff impatiently. “Well, start wherever you want. I’ve got time to go over all of it now.”

“Good. Start with when you first became aware of what was going on.”

They spent nearly the rest of the shift going over the tiniest of nuances as Ultra Magnus worked Ratchet’s testimony into his case. He made Ratchet recite every single detail, trying to wring as much as possible out of each one, then started reviewing the actual questions for the trial and how Ratchet was to answer. 

As promised, he stuck to the facts. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t shadings of the truth going on. As they moved from fact finding to practice questions, it was clear that Ultra Magnus was focusing on the injuries, the reality that all five gunshot victims had almost died, and the punishments due for Fortress Maximus’ actions. He glossed almost entirely over Ratchet’s conclusion that, during his rampage, Fort Max had only attacked those mechs who had reminded him of Overlord. The fact that Rung and Whirl had both been hurt as well helped him dodge that particular detail.

Ratchet had resigned himself early on in the session to spending a long time with Ultra Magnus, but that didn’t keep the time from dragging. As commendable as his thoroughness was, he was hopelessly pedantic, and Ratchet had to keep himself from adding any sarcastic remarks that would have only prolonged the process as they went over the same information for the fourth time. Running through the whole thing this many times, tweaking minor things in the order and wording of the questions was… well it wasn’t  _ completely _ pointless, since Ultra Magnus himself got something out of it, but it was pretty hard on Ratchet. 

It was probably a good thing (for everyone’s sake) that Whirl had already opted out of testifying. He would never have had the patience for this, and probably wouldn’t have been able to resist deviating on the stand itself.

“Are you going to want to go over anything else later?” Ratchet asked as it finally drew near the end of the shift.  _ Please say no.  _ “I can make some time if you come up with any new questions,” subtle emphasis on “new”, since they’d hashed and rehashed the existing questions to death. It was entirely possible he’d think of something else he wanted to include after talking to the others though.

“I think one more run through before the hearing itself is in order,” Ultra Magnus answered, unbothered by Ratchet’s irritation. “Otherwise, I believe we’re done.”

“I’ll send you my availability later today, then,” Ratchet said, already standing.

“Dismissed,” Ultra Magnus said with the barest amount of courtesy, already moving onto another call. Given how it was time for Ambulon to get off shift, Ratchet would bet he was looking to subject the other medics to the same treatment next. At least they’d been warned.

Ratchet knew there was no way Drift would still be in his habsuite now, but he peeked in anyway before officially starting his shift.

Drift was gone. Of course he was, and Ratchet refused to be disappointed about it. He was about to close the door when something caught his optic. When he saw what it was, he smiled.

Drift had left one of his little incense burners behind on Ratchet’s wheeled table.

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	7. Chapter 7

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As most military trials were, Fortress Maximus’ hearing was closed rather than public. It was informal too, taking place in a conference room with all the chairs rearranged. Instead of being in the front of the room, Rodimus had put himself off to the side behind a small table he was already busy doodling on; from where he was seated with the other witnesses — including Chromedome and Rewind, who was also tasked with record the trial — in two rows of folding chairs in the back, Ratchet could see Ultra Magnus’ optic already twitching. The defense and prosecution both shared one long table in the center of the room, where Fort Max was currently seated. That left one large corner of the room near Rodimus for the witness stand and space for the two advocates to pace around and make their points.

Unsurprisingly, Ultra Magnus composed himself as he stepped forward to issue his opening statement. Rodimus’ behavior might irritate him, but minor annoyances couldn’t come between him and his role as prosecutor. 

“Captain: it is my recommendation that, for his violent assault on his fellow crew members, Fortress Maximus should be stripped of his weapons and consigned to the brig for the maximum allowable sentence. The facts of the incident and the witnesses I have to call all testify to his violation of the Autobot Code, sections—” 

It was somewhat amusing, listening to him list all of the individual clauses underlying his case. From preparing with him, Ratchet knew they were all relevant clauses… but he also knew that the sheer number made it hard to create a simple, straightforward argument.

Ratchet saw several other witness’ optics glaze over. Tailgate was leaning forward eagerly, practically taking notes, but the others clearly wished they were somewhere else, or had something of their own to doodle on. Rodimus, to his credit,  _ tried _ to stay focused, but it was obvious his attention kept wandering. Drift, though, sat straight and still in his chair (turned sideways to accommodate the Great Sword on his back) with his hands folded on the table and nodded along with Ultra Magnus’ speech. Maybe he was really meditating or something, but to Ratchet it looked like he was actually paying attention.

Fortress Maximus just looked down at the surface of the table, absorbing each word like a blow.

“—or the safety of the crew,” Ultra Magnus finished. He paused to allow everyone to absorb the gravitas of his words (or just realize he’d stopped talking), then returned to his seat at the conference table. 

“Thank you Ultra Magnus,” Drift said mildly as he stood to take his place on the impromptu “stage”. “Rodi— sorry.  _ Captain,” _ his “accidental” slip into informality deftly recaptured Rodimus’ attention and the red and gold mech looked up. “No one is going to argue that Fortress Maximus should not face any consequences for what he did. I simply wish us all to realize that Fort Max isn’t just the perpetrator of these crimes, but the victim of heinous ones as well. There are none of us left without scars from the war. None of us without nightmares. Fort Max’s nightmares invaded his waking world and he responded. This is an action that deserves punishment, yes, but one that also deserves mercy. That is the Autobot way, isn’t it?” Drift paused just long enough for Rodimus to nod in the expectant silence, then smiled. “Of course it is.”

Clever, clever opening. Ratchet didn’t let himself smile, but he was impressed by how deftly Drift had handled that. He wouldn’t be able to use that trick with Rodimus’ name again without calling attention to it, but his appeal to what it meant to be an Autobot… that had a lot of power coming from Drift, given his history.

Instead of taking the shortest route back to his own chair, Drift went around Ultra Magnus and Fortress Maximus, who was seated between them. Rodimus’ optics tracked Drift’s movements, and Ratchet saw his expression soften as those movements brought Rodimus’ gaze to rest momentarily on Fort Max. Again, clever. 

“Alright,” Rodimus said after a moment. He put his almost forgotten laser pen down firmly in a resolute gesture of  _ we’re doing this. _ “Let’s get the rest of this show on the road. Ultra Magnus — you call your witnesses first.”

In a move that Ultra Magnus probably saw as solid and establishing, he called Chromedome as his first witness. His strategy was to essentially relive the incident, beginning with the shooting at Swerve’s and finishing with the aftermath of the whole ordeal, making Ratchet his final witness. Not a bad approach, but while Chromedome was familiar with police and court procedures and therefore perfectly composed on the stand, the more emotional Tailgate would have captured and held Rodimus’ sympathies better.

“Please tell the captain where you were when the defendant entered Swerve’s establishment,” Ultra Magnus began, positioning himself so Rodimus and Chromedome had a clear view of each other.

“I was in Swerve’s. I saw him come in.” With both a facemask and a visor, Chromedome wasn’t the most expressive of mechs, but he spoke to Rodimus in a clear, calm voice at just the right pitch and timbre to sound believable, truthful, trustworthy. “He’s hard to miss, though I wasn’t paying attention to him at first.”

“What did draw your attention to him?”

“He stopped at our table. Trailcutter stood up to talk to him.” Trailcutter had, from what Ratchet had heard, been complaining about how “great” Fortress Maximus was, and that he was taking attention away from others, and had started the conversation to try and cover it. Ratchet wasn’t surprised to hear Chromedome tactfully leave that part out, or that Ultra Magnus was content to gloss over that detail. If Trailcutter had been one of the witnesses, it would have been unavoidable, but he’d declined to be here, just like Ambulon, Cyclonus, Pipes, and several others had.

“And what was the defendant’s response to being engaged in conversation?” This part was useful to highlight, since of course—

“He drew his weapon and shot Pipes.” 

—immediate, unprovoked violence as a reaction to being spoken to wasn’t a good thing, no matter how you spun it.

The timing had the desired effect on Rodimus; his hand stopped its idle, meaningless drawing, and he looked over at Fortress Maximus with a frown.

“Then he turned back around and left,” Chromedome continued without being prompted, trying to get the rest of the story out while Rodimus was still looking at Fortress Maximus to tie him together with the crimes and the terror of the events; like Ratchet, Ultra Magnus had practiced this with him beforehand. “Everything was chaos for a bit. We pushed the table up to shield against further attacks, and I saw Swerve and Cyclonus take shelter behind the bar. Someone — I didn’t see who — got a shot off at the defendant as he left, but I don’t think it hit. Trailcutter and Hound tried stabilizing Pipes while a bunch of us called Ratchet.” Which Ratchet would corroborate when it was his turn on the stand.

Next to him, Swerve was chewing anxiously on his fingers in an attempt to stop himself from blurting anything out before it was his turn. Tailgate was leaning forward so far he looked like he was going to fall off his chair. Ratchet was glad neither of them seemed traumatized now, going over what had happened. He glanced over to where Rung was sitting and saw him watching the minibots as well. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing.

Drift, meanwhile, wasn’t looking away from the active participants in the trial. Ultra Magnus was visibly suspicious of Drift’s rapt attention, but he didn’t pause in his questioning to draw attention to it.

“Is there anything else you can tell the captain about the attack?” he prompted Chromedome.

“Trailcutter and Hound kept Pipes from bleeding out until Ratchet got there. Once he could be moved, they loaded him up and Ratchet and Hound left, taking him to the medbay. That was the end of my involvement.”

“Then I hand this witness over to the defense for cross-examination,” Ultra Magnus said, returning to his seat at the table. 

Drift paused, as though thinking it over, though Ratchet knew he had to have planned out just what he was going to ask each witness beforehand. “No questions at this time.”

“Alright, Chromedome. Make room for the next guy,” Rodimus said, gesturing him off the stand. 

Tailgate fell off his chair, tripping over his own feet to switch places with Chromedome.

The pattern repeated itself as Ultra Magnus questioned Tailgate, resulting in a much more rambling account of the first shooting that focused on slightly different details. The little mech was clearly excited to be part of the trial (his first ever!), and that excitement warred with the fear he was trying to recount, but he definitely held everyone’s attention. The only mech not looking at him was Fort Max, who was staring resolutely down at his hands, handcuffed to the table.

Drift politely declined to cross-examine him too. For some reason, Ultra Magnus seemed to be getting irritated at his fellow advocate, but Ratchet couldn’t see why. Drift was clearly on his best behavior, and it wasn’t like it hurt Magnus if Drift didn’t cross-examine his witnesses.

Swerve’s testimony was a much,  _ much _ more rambling version of the events at the bar. He waxed eloquently as to the danger Fortress Maximus would obviously pose to his patrons in the future, going on about how he was trying to provide the war-weary crew of the  _ Lost Light _ with a safe place to relax and unwind after their shifts. Though he and Ultra Magnus must have practiced this, he still tended to wander off topic, prompting Ultra Magnus to rein him back in… which only irritated him more, on top of whatever Drift was(n’t) doing.

Brainstorm was next, and for the first time Ratchet heard a coherent account of what had gone on when Fort Max had taken his rampage to the halls. Ultra Magnus tried to gloss over the fact that he hadn’t attacked Brainstorm at all, even though the weapons’ specialist had done some damage trying to stop him. Instead, he guided the questions to focus on the suddenness and severity of Fort Max’s attack on Dogfight.

Obviously Brainstorm couldn’t speak for the attacks he hadn’t been present for, but his testimony combined with that of the mechs present at Swerve’s and the security footage Ultra Magnus submitted as evidence (why wasn’t Red Alert presenting that? He was conspicuously absent, and Ratchet wondered how he hadn’t noticed sooner) gave a pretty comprehensive picture of the events leading up to Fort Max forting up in Rung’s office. It took a long time to get through it all though, and while that was effective for conveying a sense of how long the crisis had been, Rodimus was the wrong captain to use that strategy on.

And through it all, remarkably, Ultra Magnus continued to be irritated by Drift’s calm, professional demeanor. 

The first witness Drift did cross-examine was Brainstorm, taking the chance to highlight how he — and the other witnesses who weren’t testifying — hadn’t been harmed despite being quite literally in the line of fire. Brainstorm had even landed several shots with an unfinished experimental weapon with a name that sounded like it would hurt a lot (it did, Ratchet had seen the damage), but had been ignored by Fortress Maximus anyway. Drift kept his questions short and to the point, maximizing on the few moments of attention from Rodimus switching speakers had gotten him, but he did let Brainstorm ramble (directly to Rodimus) about the specs of his new weapon for a few kliks. He announced he had no further questions quickly and without touching on any of the rest of Brainstorm’s testimony.

There was only one witness left in front of Ratchet after that, and that was Rewind. He stated his name for the record when he got up on the stand, then waited for Ultra Magnus to ask his first question.

“When did you first become aware of the incident?” Ultra Magnus said without preamble. 

“I was on rivet duty when I got a call. Rodimus,” the captain looked up; Drift wasn’t the only one who could use that trick, “wanted me to go around the outside of the ship from where I was working to the window to Rung’s office.”

“What did you see when you reached the window?”

“Rung was tied to a chair and Whirl was on the ground,” Rewind’s voice trembled a bit, reliving the moment. “I couldn’t see Whirl very clearly, but there was energon everywhere. He was hurt, and Fort Max was looming over him with his gun. I thought he was going to shoot him!”

“Objection, speculation,” Drift interjected.

“The prosecution agrees,” Ultra Magnus put in before Rodimus could make a ruling; it didn’t matter if that last statement was taken off the record. That it had been said at all had done the damage. Worse, Ratchet could see, Drift’s objection had highlighted it, so it was certain Rodimus would remember it.

Rodimus made an impatient gesture for them to move along. 

“Were you able to hear anything?” Another redundant, establishing question; no one had been able to hear what was going on in Rung’s office by that point, even the command staff.

“No, I wasn’t. I could see Fortress Maximus and Rung both speaking — it looked like the defendant was yelling — but I couldn’t hear anything.” Rewind looked down at his hands like he thought this was a personal failing.

“You said there was energon everywhere. Can you describe the state of the hostages in any more detail?”

“I couldn’t see Whirl well,” Rewind repeated, “but he was definitely hurt. There was a big pool of energon where he was. Rung was tied to a chair by the waist, and he was bleeding too, though I couldn’t see the injuries.”

Ultra Magnus nodded, satisfied. The full details of the injuries would be for Ratchet to go over, but Rewind’s wording indicated that the energon on Rung was his own, not Whirl’s. “Please describe what happened next.”

“I was going to shoot Fortress Maximus, using the rivet gun, to disable him, but he stepped behind a pillar and I couldn’t get a good line of sight. I told Rodimus we needed to draw him out and the captain ordered me to use some footage I had of Garrus 9 to distract him.” Rewind gestured to the projector in his helm. “I didn’t know why he thought that would work, but it did. The defendant stopped what he was doing and came out to stare at the projection. Rodimus wanted me to shoot him then, but I couldn’t aim the gun and keep the projection up at the same time. I was fumbling, trying to figure out a way… Then Whirl stabbed him.” Multiple times, Ratchet knew, but that detail wasn’t useful to Ultra Magnus’ case.

“How did the defendant react?”

“He went down and didn’t get back up. Ratchet got there a few kliks later,” he said, neatly leading into the last part of Ultra Magnus’ narrative.

“No further questions,” Ultra Magnus said accordingly. While they waited to see if Drift had anything he wanted to ask, Ratchet looked over at Fort Max. The big mech looked somehow even more dejected than he had before. He’d barely reacted to hearing Rewind say that Rodimus had ordered him to shoot him, and it was clear he felt it would have been acceptable.

Drift made a show of considering if he should cross-examine, consulting his notes. The delay made Ultra Magnus twitch, and he twitched again when Drift calmly announced that he didn’t have any questions for Rewind right now.

“Then,” Ultra Magnus said irritably as he stood again, “the prosecution calls Chief Medical Officer Ratchet to the stand.”

Well (over)prepared, Ratchet exchanged places with Rewind and stopped glancing around the room, focusing on Ultra Magnus, who had taken up the same starting position he had with the other witnesses. 

“Start with how you became aware of the incident,” he prompted.

“I was onshift in the medbay when several mechs contacted me from Swerve’s all at once,” Ratchet said, not bothering to name them all and skipping to what was relevant. “I was told Pipes had been shot and needed a medic.” 

Step by step, Ratchet walked the court through the events from his perspective. At the time, he’d only registered the injuries as a sort of blur of  _ keep everyone from dying, _ but now he could recall the details all too clearly. Ultra Magnus submitted Ratchet, First Aid, Ambulon, and Hound’s reports as evidence as Ratchet himself described each horrific injury in detail.

Without all four of them there, Dogfight, at least, would have died, and Ratchet kept his hands from trembling as he acknowledged that fact.

Finally, Ultra Magnus questioned him about the aftermath. Ratchet described what he’d seen when he’d walked into Rung’s office. Dispassionately, he catalogued Whirl and Rung’s injuries and briefly acknowledged the damage Fort Max had taken.

From his place in the witness’s chair, Ratchet could see how each word seemed to strike Fortress Maximus in the spark. He really did feel guilty about his actions, but there was no way for Ratchet to soften what he’d done.

Meanwhile, Rodimus leafed through the reports. Again, it looked like he was trying to pay attention, but this was all stuff he knew, at least in the most general sense, and Ultra Magnus’ insistence on going through every… single…  _ detail _ wasn’t making any more of an impact than the injuries already had.

It wasn’t, Ratchet thought, that Rodimus didn’t care about what had happened, but that everything was already in the past and he didn’t feel a great need to personally rehash it all. Ratchet wondered if he’d already decided how he was going to rule; Rodimus wasn’t exactly an unbiased judge, though Ratchet didn’t know him well enough, especially as a commander, to tell how personally he took threats to his crew.

“As of now, everyone has been discharged with a clean bill of health,” Ratchet concluded, the only kind thing he could say about the whole ordeal. “No additional follow-ups or rehab have been deemed necessary.”

“We are all relieved by that,” Ultra Magnus said solemnly. “Thank you Ratchet.” He stalked — though with his bulk, perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a stomp — back to the table. “Perhaps the defense would like to cross-examine  _ this _ witness.”

Drift gave Ultra Magnus a mild look. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

He stood. So far, Drift hadn’t been on the floor enough for Ratchet to know his “usual” spots to stand or ways he paced, but he was approaching this differently than he had Brainstorm. There was something in his attitude, the way he swaggered…

Maybe that was it. Drift was swaggering, stalking, rather than bouncing. Taking down his Happy Autobot mask a bit, though Ratchet couldn’t see why he’d chosen to do so now.

“I’m sure you remember this part, Captain,” Rodimus looked up sharply, realizing he was being asked something, but instead of demanding an answer from him, Drift turned to Ratchet. “At one point during the crisis, you called the command line to tell us something about Fort Max’s victims. Please repeat it for the court.”

“I said I believed Fortress Maximus was deliberately choosing targets that reminded him of Overlord,” more or less, but the exact wording probably didn’t matter here. 

“No further questions for this witness,” Drift waved breezily as he stalked back to his seat. He smiled at Ultra Magnus’ suspicious glower, and as far as Ratchet could see he didn’t even show off any fangs.

Was that it then? Ratchet knew there wasn’t much he could say that would be useful to Drift, but he couldn’t see how that one question played to his advantage. Oh well. That was Drift’s problem. He was more than willing to vacate the stand and let someone else take his place.

Now was the time for Ultra Magnus to call witnesses back and rehash anything that hadn’t been clear on the first round, or try to muddle anything Drift had brought out in his cross-examinations. But it seemed Ultra Magnus felt that once was enough, since Drift hadn’t really done much cross-examining to undermine, and he turned the court over to the defense with a glower that just made Drift smile again.

“I call ship’s counsellor Rung as my first witness,” Drift said.

Rung stood and made his way over to the stand. He took a moment to adjust it while Drift paced—  _ stalked _ over and crouched down to address the much smaller psychiatrist. 

“Rung…” Drift said, speaking like the two of them were friends, “how did you and Fort Max meet?”

“He came under my care when he joined the crew following the excursion to Delphi,” Rung answered calmly. “Our first session was also the first time I’d ever spoken with him.”

“Your first session. Was this just routine?”

“Not entirely.” Rung spread his hands expressively. “It is my job to do an evaluation of every member of the crew, but even from the beginning, the intention with Fort Max was for multiple therapy sessions.”

“And why is that?” Drift continued to crouch there, keeping his questioning gentle, the complete opposite of Ultra Magnus’ more authoritative approach.

“Because of the recent trauma he experienced, prior to his coma.” 

“What sort of trauma?”

Talking around the truth wouldn’t do Fort Max any favors, but Rung still gave him a sympathetic look before answering. “Torture. Mental and physical torture at the hands of the Decepticon, Overlord, when he overran Garrus 9.”

Drift shot Fort Max a sympathetic look too, as did Rodimus. “Fort Max had had several sessions with you just before the incident, correct?” Rung nodded. “In fact, the most recent was immediately prior. Would you say he’d recovered from his trauma?”

“No. If anything, we had hit a point of resistance — he was struggling, reluctant to take the next step toward recovery.” There was no judgment in Rung’s voice, no accusation that he should have been getting better faster. “He refused to talk about what happened. The session immediately prior to the incident was cut short by Fortress Maximus declaring we were done for the cycle and walking out.”

“So he walked out of therapy,” Drift mused. Finally, he stood and went over to the table where Ultra Magnus had been putting his evidence — mostly reports — for Rodimus to peruse. He grabbed one, Ratchet recognised his own, and leafed through it. “Can you tell me what time that was, Rung? Exactly?”

Rung provided a precise timestamp immediately. “I recorded it as the end of our session in my files,” he elaborated.

“Thank you,” Drift said politely, then looked up, directly at Rodimus, meeting his optics. “That was less than a breem before Ratchet got the first emergency call from Swerve’s.” He turned the datapad so Rodimus could see for himself.

Not that Rodimus was looking. He was too busy blanching in horror.

That was… pretty compelling. Ratchet hadn’t been aware how close the timing was, and if Fort Max had left Rung’s office already distraught after discussing Garrus 9… In that light, a break of some kind didn’t seem random so much as inevitable.

“So,” Drift turned back to Rung, but only slightly; he was still speaking mostly to Rodimus, “Fort Max leaves your office after trying and failing to discuss the nightmarish torture he’d been subjected to, and less than a breem later he starts shooting mechs who remind him of his torturer?”

“Objection: speculation,” Ultra Magnus interjected, immediately and predictably.

“Withdrawn,” Drift aquiesced; Rung hadn’t even opened his mouth to answer the question. No doubt the moment had been rehearsed by the two of them. “I think I’ve said everything I need to. Would the prosecution like to cross-examine?”

The look Ultra Magnus gave Drift was so aggrieved it was almost comical. Ratchet kept his own expression neutral, but he swore he could almost  _ feel  _ the frustration in Ultra Magnus’ field, that the careful cross-examination he had prepared was now useless. Drift hadn’t left him anything to work with — the only thing Rung could add to the prosecution would have come from his account of being held hostage, but Drift hadn’t brought that up, so neither could Ultra Magnus.

The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord glared down at his notes, then looked back up. “Not at this time,” he gritted out,  _ mostly _ civilly.

“Then the defense rests.” Drift sat back down, looking professional and attentive and  _ not at all _ smug at Ultra Magnus’ frustration.

Ratchet wanted to ask Drift if he’d planned things this way, or if he’d cut his questioning short based on the mood in the room. There were things he could have added, asking Rung about both the event itself and going to see Fort Max in the brig afterward, and Ratchet was a bit surprised he hadn’t, given how concerned he’d been about doing a good job, but his position didn’t suffer for it. If anything, it was stronger.

“Alright,” Rodimus pushed the report to the side, to sit with the stack of other reports. “Closing statements. Magnus, you first.”

Visibly shifting mental gears, Ultra Magnus turned to deliver his closing statement. “There can be no doubt that the defendant violently assaulted several members of the crew in a manner that very nearly resulted in fatalities and did require the use of force to bring an end to it. In the interest of preventing any such incidents in the future, and in accordance with the Autobot Code, he should be stripped of his weapons and confined to the brig for a minimum of a vorn with intent to transfer him to an appropriate facility at the soonest possible opportunity to serve out the remainder of his sentence.”

When he finished, Ultra Magnus stepped aside to let Drift make his statement, but he continued to stand rather than retaking his seat, visually dominating the stage. Drift compensated for that by stepping closer to Rodimus and leaning in to talk more intimately to the captain. The subtext wasn’t subtle to Ratchet: Magnus standing tall, aloof, and imposing,  _ listen to me because I am the law, _ versus Drift’s more intimate posture,  _ listen to me because I am your friend. _

“Rodimus,” Drift didn’t even pretend it was a mistake now, “the Autobot Code also has provisions in it for the rehabilitation of prisoners of war. We,” he flicked his gaze over where the witnesses watched, and on cue, Rung leaned forward as Rodimus followed his gaze, “believe an extended brig sentence would only hurt Fort Max and increase the chance something like this will happen again once he’s released. I say he should only serve one quartex in the brig, with his weapons removed, then resume his duties under confinement to his quarters — escorted to his duty station and back. If he needs a weapon for his duties, he can check one out at the armory and return it when he goes off duty. No shore leave, no stipend for shore leave, no weapons except as needed, and not allowed to frequent social areas of the ship for six quartex after that. At that time, based on Rung’s evaluation of his mental state, we can either extend or discontinue the restrictions.” He paused. “Until all are one, Roddy,” he said very softly.

“You’re manipulating me,” Rodimus said with a slight grin.

“I am,” Drift admitted readily. “Is it working?”

“Dunno yet. Both,” he raised his voice to address him and Ultra Magnus, “of you go away and let me think.”

That was also the cue for the witnesses (except Rewind) to leave. The verdict would be announced first privately to Fortress Maximus and the two advocates, then later to the rest of the ship.

Ratchet stood, but waited to allow Swerve and Tailgate to leave first, since they were clearly eager to get out of the room and start talking about what they were absolutely not supposed to be talking about publicly. Chromedome followed them after a brief squeeze of hands with Rewind, his longer strides letting him catch up and join the two minibots easily. Hopefully he would remind them to keep things to themselves until the official announcement was made.

“Shall we?” Rung asked quietly at his elbow, obviously meaning to stick with him.

“I should be getting back to the medbay,” Ratchet said once they were out in the hall.

“I can walk with you.”

“If you like.” Rung had probably cleared his schedule for the hearing too, but Ratchet was hoping there would be something he could do in the medbay when he got there. He liked Rung, but he knew exactly what he would try to do if they ended up spending the rest of the shift together.

They walked in silence at first. Rung had to take nearly two steps for every one of Ratchet’s but he was used to keeping up with larger mechs and did so effortlessly — and Ratchet wasn’t  _ so _ desperate to avoid him that he’d be rude about it. “I’m proud of Drift,” Rung said after a moment. “He put on a good performance.”

“He really did,” Ratchet agreed, proud of how well Drift had done after being so nervous about whether or not he was qualified to do the job. “There was some pretty deft maneuvering going on there, and even where it was blatant, it looks like it was at least partially effective.” Which was good news for Fort Max. “I’m in agreement that a harsher sentence wouldn’t be helpful to him, by the way,” he said. “There are other measures that can be taken to protect the crew, besides locking him up and throwing away the key.”

“You’re a very caring person,” Rung said. “And you seem to be doing better since we launched.”

“Less overworked. Comes with finally not being the only medic around for a change.”

“The bane of every ship’s medic in the army,” Rung accepted the change of subject cheerfully. “So when is the Great Ratchet going into his promised retirement?”

“I’m still working on that,” Ratchet admitted grudgingly. “There’s plenty First Aid could stand to improve on, but he’s essentially got the basic qualifications. The gap between our skills comes down to time, and short of keeping him as my assistant for the next several vorns, there’s not much I can do to give him more experience before I hand over the title.” 

“How much experience do you think he needs?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find a balance between: how much experience I think he needs, and how much  _ he  _ thinks he needs.” Something that First Aid himself complicated by being brashly confident in some areas, yet incredibly insecure in others. “I’ve got more time now than I expected to have. There isn’t the same necessity to pass things on to a successor that there was when we launched, and that gives me a chance to prepare him better.”

“Because of the new hands?” Funny how everything Rung said came back to how Ratchet was doing. It was like he was doing it on purpose or something, the little conniving psy-ops busybody.

He’d hit the nail on the head though, and there was no point denying it. “Yes, because of the new hands. I thought I had maybe a vorn left before I’d have to admit it wasn’t safe to work on certain kinds of repairs,” specifically, the delicate, internal kind he did all the time thanks to the self-destructive nature of the majority of the crew, “but now… I could go on indefinitely, if I wanted to.”

“Good.” Rung smiled. The door to the medbay opened as they approached. “I’ll erase my reserved cycle for your mental breakdown. You should be happy. Maybe you can help me figure out where to put my money in one of Smokescreen’s betting pools though.”

“You had a  _ reserved  _ cycle for  _ my  _ mental breakdown?” Ratchet huffed and turned away from Rung, looking for First Aid. “Why would I help you after hearing something like that?”

“I had to reserve the whole cycle,” Rung said with a flicker of  _ humor _ through his field. “I didn’t know what time it’d happen. And you’ll help me, because otherwise I’ll tell Ultra Magnus  _ just _ how long it’s been since your last official eval.”

“Blackmail  _ and  _ gambling. Maybe I should be telling Ultra Magnus on you.” But of course he wouldn’t. Ratchet didn’t see First Aid anywhere in the main medbay, so he walked over to check ISO. “And just which pool are you looking for information on?” he asked, ignoring the additional comment about his mental health.

“How are you and Drift working out?” 

Of course. Of  _ course. _ Sneaky little twerp was just working another angle for psychoanalyzing him!

First Aid, for his part, was cheerfully polishing the berths in the isolation room. Whirl was perched on one of them, and from the way he was gesturing animatedly, the two were talking.

Ratchet cracked open the door, interrupting their conversation. “They dismissed the witnesses,” he told the junior medic. “You got everything under control, or is there anything you need me to take something off your hands?”

“Everything’s fine,” First Aid answered, almost sing-song, before Whirl could do more than smirk. “He’s telling me about the  _ Xantium.” _

Whirl tilted his head and Ratchet could almost see him evaluate making a snide comment, then he leaned to the side to look past him. “Hey, Eyebrows! How’s it hanging?”

“Everything’s going well, for the moment at least.” Rung smiled back at him. “The hearing should be wrapped up any breem now.”

“Good, good,” Whirl waved that off. “Bygones, huh?”

“Hopefully.”

“So,” Ratchet addressed First Aid, giving Whirl a pointed look, “are you sure you don’t need any help?”

First Aid faltered a bit, turning to look at Ratchet with a quizzical look. “No. We’re perfectly fine.”

“Firsty’s gonna have to tell his besty I won’t protect him from Drifty,” Whirl said, apparently finding his own wording hilarious and cackling. “Not unless I  _ need  _ to anyway.”

“Yeah,” First Aid looked over at Whirl and Ratchet could feel his field soften with  _ fondness. _

So much for hiding behind work. “Well, I’m available now if something comes up. Call me if you need anything,” Ratchet said, then let the door slide shut. “I suppose you still want an answer about me and Drift, huh?”

Rung gave Ratchet a knowing look, just to tell him he hadn’t been fooled one bit. “If you please.”

“Well, we’re fine.” The details weren’t anyone’s business, but Ratchet wasn’t ashamed of their relationship. “If you’re going to put money on it, you can go ahead and put it on us lasting for awhile.”

“I’ll remember that. It’s good to see you happy.” Rung tilted his head and considered Ratchet for a moment. “I think that’s enough. You can continue dodging your evals with impunity.”

“Hmph. I haven’t been dodging.” At least he wasn’t going to admit to dodging. “I just haven’t wanted to take your valuable time away from your other patients.”

“Of course, Ratchet,” Rung didn’t bother contradicting him. 

“Speaking of your other patients,” Ratchet said, remembering Red Alert’s rather conspicuous absence at the hearing, “is Red Alert doing alright? I know you can’t share specifics,” he said quickly, “but I haven’t seen much of him lately.”

For a moment Rung looked down and away, conflicted. Then, “Maybe we should talk about that in the consult room,” he finally suggested with a sigh.

Ratchet blinked in surprise. “Of course,” he said, concern coming to the fore. He led the way to the consult room, then waited for both of them to take a seat before asking, “Did something happen?”

“Red Alert is… doing fine, considering, but,” Rung took off his glasses and wiped them down, a nervous habit he almost never indulged in. “But he found something that I’m quite certain he wasn’t supposed to. I need to know how much I can tell him — without lying to him and telling him it’s nothing. That will only prompt him to dig deeper and become more certain someone will do him harm to keep him from talking.”

“He thinks someone is going to try to silence him?” Coming from Red Alert that was more likely to be a symptom of his paranoia than a reasonable fear, but Rung looked rattled enough that a sense of foreboding started to creep over Ratchet. “What did he find?”

“Overlord. Or,” he added quickly, “at least what appears to be him, locked in some sort of cell in the belly of the ship. And Red Alert thinks that someone is trying to keep that information a secret and will do him harm if they find out he knows. I’ve worked with black ops projects before,” Rung said, putting his glasses back on, “so I have no doubt based on some of the things he’s told me that someone  _ is  _ actively keeping an optic on him, which is why I need to know what to  _ tell _ him.”

Ratchet didn’t say anything right away. He  _ couldn’t  _ say anything. All he could do was stare as he struggled to process what he thought he’d just heard. “Could you back up to the part where you said he found Overlord — the actual Decepticon Phase Sixer  _ Overlord  _ — on this ship?” he finally managed to ask.

“You didn’t know? Oh, dear.” Rung folded his hands and looked down at them. “Perhaps I should have gone directly to the captain.”

“I know  _ now,”  _ Ratchet said, still stunned. If Overlord really was onboard, he  _ should  _ have known about it. Transporting a mech like that was even more of a danger to the crew than Fortress Maximus — by a power of about a thousand. Not to  _ mention  _ what a  _ horrible _ idea it was to have the two of them onboard the same ship!

“I’m sorry Ratchet; I seem to have misstepped here.” Rung sighed again. “Red Alert is quite aware he has a problem. Much of his treatment has consisted of encouraging him to seek outside confirmation for his more outlandish worries. He’s aware this qualifies and has made several attempts to present me with proof, most recently a visual recording. The prisoner definitely looks like every picture I’ve ever seen of Overlord.”

“A recording?” That would be rather hard to dispute, all right. “Do you have it with you?”

From one of his ubiquitous pockets, Rung pulled out a data slug and held it out to Ratchet. “I’m told this is one of several copies, though Red Alert won’t attempt disseminating them to people he does not trust.” 

Which Ratchet knew was pretty much no one. Taking the data slug, he opened the port on his wrist and plugged it in. After waiting for the obligatory virus-scan, which of course came up empty, he opened the one video file it contained. His gasp when it loaded was audible, but he couldn’t help it. That was  _ definitely  _ Overlord, fully repaired and trussed up in some kind of  _ not full medical stasis. _ What was he doing there? Who had  _ authorized _ this?!

“You said you hadn’t gone to the captain yet?” he asked. “I’m the first person you’ve brought this to?”

“Well yes,” Rung said, taking off his glasses again. “I do  _ generally _ know how to keep a classified secret, and this isn’t even the first one Red Alert’s managed to uncover. It’s how I know he’ll calm down once he’s read in — or at least given a reasonable cover story.”

“I wish I had one for you.” Ratchet scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to think. “Whoever’s behind this, they left me out of the loop.” Probably because there wasn’t a single reason why he would have approved of something like  _ this _ . “…Drift did mention having issues with Red Alert,” he said reluctantly, remembering his complaints about the mech never resting and digging his nose into everything. In light of this new information, it wasn’t hard to guess why he’d been so concerned. “If Red’s noticed someone following him, it’s probably Drift.” Drift was way sneakier than he let on, and Ratchet couldn’t think of anyone else on the ship who could follow Red Alert without being caught red-handed. And if Drift was involved… “He and Rodimus have to be in on it.”

“Just please, try not to cause a scene. I know you have a temper, and,” Rung added quickly, “you’re entitled to be angry, but for Red Alert’s sake — for everyone’s sake — this should stay quiet.” 

“Oh, I’m angry,” Ratchet said, and he didn’t need Rung’s permission to be, thank you very much! “But I’m not going to go running off to yell at anyone right away.” Not this time. Black ops wasn’t something to take lightly, even if Ratchet doubted any of them were in danger of actually being taken out to protect the secret. “Would you prefer that I bring this to them? One of us has to, and I’m perfectly willing to take it from here.”

Rung gave him a long, considering look. “I need something to tell Red Alert,” he repeated, “but otherwise it might be best.”

“Then tell him the CMO is aware of Overlord’s presence on the ship and is keeping an optic on everyone’s safety in regard to that fact.” All perfectly true, even if Ratchet hadn’t known until a few kliks ago. He was certainly going to follow up on it now to make sure no one got hurt! “He doesn’t need to know why Overlord is onboard, since he wasn’t supposed to know he was there at all.” Ratchet, on the other hand, was going to demand to know why. Just as soon as he figured out how to bring it up without “causing a scene”.

“Alright.” Rung nodded and made sure his glasses were settled. “I will do that. Thank you for listening.”

“Thank you for confiding in me.” Telling him had been a risk on Rung’s part, and Ratchet appreciated having his trust. He reached out and patted Rung’s shoulder gently. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, whether I’m able to let you know anything more about it or not. Just take care of Red Alert and let me know if he keeps having trouble. And for frag’s sake, don’t let Fort Max know he’s here.”

“Obviously.”

What a slagging mess…

“I’ll see you later then?” Ratchet said, standing up. He needed to think, and that would be better done in his habsuite than here in the consult room.

“Yes, of course.” 

Passing through the medbay after Rung left, Ratchet could see First Aid and Whirl still happily in their little bubble of cleaning and polishing the already clean and polished ISO room. Heading down the hall to his quarters, Ratchet closed the door behind him and signalled for the lights to come up, illuminating the bare room.

Drift’s little incense burner was still on Ratchet’s table.

What was he going to do?

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	8. Chapter 8

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.

.

Ratchet still hadn’t decided what to do by the time Drift came to share the good news: Rodimus had ruled in Fortress Maximus’ favor. He was going to serve a short stint in the brig — shorter even than Drift had recommended, though long enough to give everyone some distance from his actions and let him feel he wasn’t getting off scot-free — then be returned to duty, confined to quarters, integrated weapons disabled, with mandatory counseling for several quartex. They’d revisit the restrictions then, and adjust them based on Rung’s recommendations regarding Fort Max’s mental state. 

Drift was giddy! His first — his  _ only, _ he still hoped — trial and Ultra Magnus had (grudgingly) congratulated him on putting together an acceptable case! Excitedly, he told Ratchet about all the arguments he’d prepared. Perceptor had put together a thing for him, a threat assessment report, and yes, it was important Perceptor had done it because Rodimus didn’t question that Perceptor was right about everything having to do with math. And he and Rung had practiced how to trip Ultra Magnus up on his cross examination, which hadn’t happened because Rodimus had been convinced without having to continue their planned line of questioning, but still! He even had a statement from Whirl stating he’d been deliberately provoking Fort Max, no harm, no foul!  _ Whirl! _

Any other day, that would have boggled Ratchet’s mind. It was an impressive amount of thought and work, and Drift deserved to feel proud of it. But he couldn’t make the words come. The congratulations were trapped behind questions and accusations about Overlord. Oh, he did his best, mumbling the appropriate interested sounds as Drift chattered while otherwise he held his tongue. The issue of Overlord needed to be brought up ASAP, yes, but this was not the time.

It didn’t exactly improve his mood that Ratchet  _ knew _ that, if it weren’t for his still relatively new relationship with Drift, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a nanoklik to storm into Rodimus’ office and demand an explanation immediately. But he knew (unconfirmed but he  _ knew) _ Drift was involved too, and he knew Drift well enough now to know that he would support Rodimus. Drift always supported Rodimus’ decisions, and that meant challenging the captain would cause a rift between them. There was no reason it  _ should; _ personal and professional relationships were supposed to be separate, but it never worked that way in reality.

Not looking forward to the prospect, Ratchet tried to squash his sour disposition beneath the determination to talk to Rodimus next time Drift was off-shift. Or maybe when Drift was on bridge duty and couldn’t bail Rodimus out. Leave their relationship out of it for as long as possible.

Unfortunately, Rung was right: Ratchet had a temper, and suppressing it, even with the goal of not imploding a perfectly good relationship, wasn’t easy. Despite his best efforts, Drift picked up on his displeasure and his excitement faltered. For a moment he looked lost, uncertain. Ratchet almost caved, was about to bring up Overlord, but then Drift’s optics fell on the datapad — the one with all of his saved Decepticon writings — resting beside the incense burner and with a soft “oh” he turned and fled Ratchet’s quarters.

Ratchet let out a string of profanity Kup would have been proud of and started to give chase, but Drift was  _ fast.  _ He’d already made it past the medbay and around the corner at the end of the hall, and Ratchet came to a stop just outside the medbay doors to the stares of a perplexed First Aid and a vaguely threatening Whirl. 

Whirl clacked his pincers.

Great. As if fragging up with Drift wasn’t bad enough, now he was going to have a couple of ex-Wreckers haunting his tire tracks until he either fixed this, or Perceptor sniped him from orbit.

Ratchet had no intention of chasing Drift all over the ship though. Neither of them were newbuilds; they could handle this like adults in not-creepy, not-stalkerish ways. Ratchet would leave Drift a message explaining that the datapad — that Gleam or Digress or even Megatron or Oratorio (not that he’d opened anything with  _ their _ names attached yet!) — wasn’t responsible for his bad mood, without going into any other details. He’d apologize. He wasn’t sure if he had anything to apologize  _ for, _ but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Then he’d go have his shouting match with Rodimus—

_ “Medical emergency! Ratchet! Ultra Magnus just collapsed!" _

Oh, for the love of—  _ “Collapsed where? What happened?” _

_ “Hallway. Outside the bridge.” _ Rodimus sounded stressed.  _ “And I don’t know. I didn’t see anything. We were just talking!” _

Technically, Ratchet was off duty. He could have sent First Aid. But Rodimus had called him, and he could use the distraction.  _ “I’m on my way,”  _ he said, setting off at a rapid pace. The patient was Ultra Magnus, after all. There were certain things about him the other two medics weren’t ready to handle on their own.

He found Skids hovering worriedly over Ultra Magnus’ prone form when he arrived, doing a fairly competent impression of a field medic looking over a new patient, but he ceded his place to Ratchet easily. 

“I can tell you what it’s not,” he said, while Rodimus blurted out a defensive “I didn’t do it!” 

“Did I say I thought you had?” Ignoring Rodimus, Ratchet turned to Skids as he opened a diagnostic port. If anything,  _ Drift  _ was the one who might have done something, accidentally, by aggravating him at the hearing. “What did you check for?”

“Tank contaminants, engine-coughs, broken struts, every battlefield wound I don’t remember ever seeing, eighteen different corrosion diseases, Backfire Syndrome, Iron Hand disease, Marasmus Articulorum, Ataxia, stress fractures, fuel hypertension, overstressed spark…” Skids pinged Ratchet a full list. It was hardly comprehensive, but it was enough to tell him that they were dealing with something uncommon. It certainly wasn’t, according to Skids’ list, any sort of stress-related collapse. Skids, apparently, knew how to diagnose a  _ lot _ of stress-related problems.

“I’m probably going to need to move him,” Ratchet said as he started a basic processor scan. Ultra Magnus didn’t exactly fit inside his alt mode. “You two up to the task?”

“Sure.”

“Anything you need, Ratch.”

The only thing the scan showed was that Ultra Magnus’ outer armor shell was under attack by  _ something. _ It had shut down to protect the smaller mech inside from the invader while it tried — unsuccessfully — to fight it off.

“Well then, I need to get him under a more sophisticated scanner.” Ratchet disconnected and stood. “All together, let’s go.”

They heaved. Absently, Ratchet remarked that Ultra Magnus and Ambulon weighed roughly the same, and some part of him not busy with the task at hand made a note not to transport Ambulon anywhere by himself. Skids and Rodimus weren’t the strongest mechs on the ship, but they weren’t lightweights either. Between the three of them they managed to get moving while Ratchet pinged First Aid to get the medbay ready. 

Whirl met them on the way. “Wondering what he was doing, and how he’d been convinced to do it, the dashing helicopter silently takes his share of Ultra Fragness’ weight…” Great. He was narrating his thoughts again. But he  _ did _ take a good share of Ultra Magnus’ weight, making maneuvering him into the medbay and onto one of the larger berths much easier.

“So now,” Whirl clacked his pincers, “he considers that now is perhaps not the time to settle any scores and starts edging toward the—” Ratchet sent the code to lock down the mebay; the door shut and Whirl squawked. “Trapped! He turns to the medic to demand an explanation for this affront, just one of many mind you, and—”

“No one goes in or out until we know what’s wrong with Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet said flatly. Something was attacking him and it could be contagious. Frag, he hoped not, because that would mean they’d have another, much more serious, epidemic on their hands, but he had to consider the possibility.

Whirl squawked again, but it wasn’t the truly threatening sound of his rotors spinning up or guns ratcheting into place, so Ratchet put Whirl and his external internal monologue out of his mind and focused on his patient. 

Rodimus hovered worriedly while Ratchet and First Aid worked. He didn’t interfere and he (surprisingly, and perhaps it was unfair to be surprised) didn’t demand any explanations, but he did pace, engine growling discontentedly, and Ratchet did his best to ignore him too.

Test after test came up negative. Ultra Magnus was unconscious, something was attacking him from the inside, but Ratchet couldn’t detect any foreign components, almost like whatever-it-was was  _ deliberately _ evading his scans…

Ratchet hissed in realization.

“What is it, Ratchet?” First Aid’s field was a riot of stress and worry and helplessness. 

“Nanocons,” Ratchet said shortly. This was bad, and not just for Ultra Magnus. Right now they were contained by the massive Enforcer, but once they were done ravaging his systems they’d escape and move on to infect anyone nearby.

No wonder he’d been struggling to identify what was wrong; nanocons weren’t really a  _ medical _ problem, and there wasn’t a lot a medic could do about them. They were weapons tech that only mimicked a disease.

Weapons tech! 

“Captain!” Ratchet barked with sudden inspiration. Rodimus jumped mid-pace, engine squealing in surprise. “Get Brainstorm on the comline.” Brainstorm was infamous for getting wrapped up in his projects and not answering anyone he thought less important than whatever shiny new WMD he was making, but he’d have to answer the captain. 

As soon as he had something to  _ do, _ even if it was only arguing with their resident mad-genius, Rodimus perked up. While the captain gestured wildly along with his silent conversation (in a manner that was eerily similar to the way  _ Whirl _ gestured as he paced, which Ratchet did not point out to either of them), Ratchet launched into an explanation about nanocons for First Aid. “They were originally designed by the Decepticons. Obviously the idea was to create something small enough to get inside a mech and kill them from the inside out. They’re almost impossible to detect when they’re dormant,” making it very difficult to determine if or when someone had been infected with them, “then once they activate, they tear up their host’s internal systems and jump to the next available target, and so on and so on until there’s no one left.”

“So how do we get rid of them?” First Aid looked at the various diagnostic readings that collectively said  _ unconscious, damaged patient, frag if I know what’s wrong. _ “What’s the treatment?”

“Medically? Nothing.” A quick glance at Rodimus showed he was still busy dealing with Brainstorm’s babble about whatever his call had interrupted. “Tell him it’s nanocons,” Ratchet told Rodimus, then continued, “They aren’t part of Ultra Magnus’ systems, so we can’t target them with antiviral scripts. The code won’t reach them to deactivate them. And we can’t physically destroy them either, because they’re too small and too widespread throughout delicate systems, and too virulent for even augmented self-repair to keep ahead of.”

“So what do we do?” First Aid looked down at the unconscious Ultra Magnus. Ratchet would have understood if he’d seen fear or helplessness in First Aid’s frame or field, but as far as he could tell, First Aid was  _ thinking.  _ He hoped he could come up with something; Autobot standard operating procedure — at least in those circles that believed nanocons were an actual, real, thing — was to put the infected mech in a life pod and shoot him out into space. Usually with either a dose of lethal code or a particularly deadly gun for the mech to use on himself as soon as he was far enough away that the nanocons couldn’t travel back to the ship. 

Like  _ frag _ was Ratchet doing  _ that. _

“We set up containment, monitor the infestation, and hope Brainstorm can come up with something we can use to destroy them without killing Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet said. Now that he knew what they were up against, he was able to calibrate the scanners to actually pick up the nanocons. They were still trapped within Magnus’ outer armor, but they were on the move. “Unless you have any other suggestions?”

“Maybe we can make some sort of nano… bots? Something to go in there and fight the nanocons?” 

_ Thud! _

Something ran into the closed and locked Medbay door before Ratchet could answer. “Please tell me that’s Brainstorm,” he muttered. “If you’re not Brainstorm, go away! We can’t treat anyone in here right now!”

He heard the unmistakable sound of someone transforming.  _ Clang! Clang! _ The mech pounded on the door, somehow making the sound  _ cheerful. _ “Ratch!” Brainstorm called. “Ratch. Ratch. Ra~atchet!”

Whirl and Skids had moved over towards the door when Ratchet had announced what the problem was. They edged back away from it as Ratchet walked over to let Brainstorm in, which saved him the trouble of shoving them aside. “You’re probably fine, but I can’t let you leave yet,” he said, opening the door just enough for— well, he thought it was barely enough for Rewind to squeeze through, but somehow Brainstorm made his way through without waiting for him to widen the gap.

“This is so exciting!” Brainstorm crowed as he flitted deeper into the room. “Where do you want me to set up?” Without waiting for a reply, he pulled a wheeled table that usually held medical tools over to the occupied berth and put his briefcase down on it. Then he unsubspaced a red microscope and set it next to the shiny yellow case. He fussed with it a little. “Gotta make sure it’s got the best view,” he — didn’t — explain. Briefly, he shined the lens.

_ Not going to ask, I’m not going to ask.  _ Ratchet shut the door and returned to Ultra Magnus’ side. “Did you let Rodimus get out anything after ‘nanocons’, or do you still need the details?”

“Details, sure,” Brainstorm waved his hand distractedly, still making sure the microscope had the best ‘view’.

“Is that for recording the experiment?” First Aid did what Ratchet was refusing to and asked. Whirl fell to the floor cackling.

Brainstorm shot Whirl a wounded look, but then turned his gaze to First Aid. “It’s my  _ second—” _ Whirl cackled louder “—favorite microscope. It has to be here. I have a policy: all my experiments need to be witnessed by at least one microscope, and my favorite one is… busy.”

“What we’re  _ dealing with,”  _ Ratchet stressed, talking loudly in an attempt to take control of the conversation before they all learned anything else they really didn’t need to know about Brainstorm’s microscopes, “is a nanocon infestation, currently centralized in Ultra Magnus’ helm and torso. They’re inside his wiring and motor control systems and working deeper as we speak, so the sooner we think of a way to beat them, the less we’ll have to worry about his processor or spark.” He would already be worrying a lot more than he was if it wasn’t for Ultra Magnus’ unique situation, in fact. The little slaggers were  _ quick. _

“Right. Gotcha. Everybody come over here to witness my greatness!”

Ratchet and First Aid were already there, but First Aid shuffled to the side to make room for Whirl after he composed himself and clacked his way over. Rodimus walked up beside Ratchet, while Skids peered over his shoulder. “What do you have for us?” he asked, sounding anxious. 

“This,” Brainstorm produced a gun like it was a magic trick, “is a little project of mine I like to call a  _ Mass-Displacement Gun. _ You may all applaud.”

No one applauded.

Brainstorm looked miffed, wings flicking up and down in tune with his mood. “It  _ shrinks things.” _ He did something to it, and it made a sound eerily reminiscent of Whirl’s rotors; everyone took an instinctive step back. “Like  _ really _ tiny.”

“Nanobots!” First Aid exclaimed.

“So you’re going to shrink us down and send us in there to destroy the nanocons and save Ultra Magnus?” Rodimus came out of his funk and actually sounded excited about the idea.

Brainstorm blinked, yellow optics going off, then coming back on in rapid succession. “Well I was going to suggest we use some drones or something, but that’s better! We’ll do that!”

“Why don’t we do both?” Ratchet suggested, knowing the futility of trying to talk Rodimus and Brainstorm out of the idiotic notion now that it was in their heads. Besides — it might actually work. “You’ll be tiny, and Ultra Magnus is big. It’s going to be a lot of ground to cover if it’s just you.”

“To~o la~te,” Brainstorm sing-songed; he didn’t give any reason why they couldn’t do both. “All of you get over there. You’re going to want to be touching him — and holding onto each other — or you’ll get lost.”

“Wait! You’ve all got field kits, right?” In a bid to do  _ something  _ before they went ahead with the half-baked plan, Ratchet rushed to grab a spare kit and shoved it into Skids’ hands. “Be careful in there. The nanocons will attack you as well as Ultra Magnus.”

“Whirl tilts his opic quizzically as he somehow finds himself holding hands with Firstie and the blue guy and thinks to himself ‘Am I really going to do this?’ And the answer is ‘frag yes! Because this is going to be  _ awesome!’.” _

“No shooting,” Rodimus said quickly. “We want Ultra Magnus to get better.”

“You’re no fun,” Whirl pouted. “I’m going to pretend you—”

Without further ado, Brainstorm lined up his gun and with another high-pitched whine, a beam of light lanced out to encompass the four of them. They glowed with a lurid blue halo… and disappeared.

“It worked!”

Ratchet’s scanner beeped an alarm: detecting four anomalies in one of Ultra Magnus’ armor seams.

“Will their comms still work?” They were going to need at least  _ some  _ direction, whether they wanted it or not. “I need to send them the scan results so they can see where the nanocons are.”

“You might have to adjust for some distortion.” Brainstorm leaned over the diagnostic scanner. “They’ve got  _ teeny-tiny _ vocalizers now. But their internal comms are strong enough; they should reach out into the room.” His optics sparkled happily. “This is so cool! Hi!” He waved at the four little Xs that marked the shrunken Cybertronians.

“They can’t see you waving! They’re less than an inch tall and beneath another mech’s plating!” 

Of course that wasn’t stopping Brainstorm. “They can’t hear me either. Distortion. They’re not picking up sounds in my vocal range very well right now,” he said distractedly, poking the scanner. 

With only a little bit of difficulty, Ratchet managed to pull everyone in on a shared comm.  _ “Rodimus, I’m going to stream the scan data to you so you can see where you need to go. Is everyone alright?” _

_ “Oh yeah!” _ Rodimus sounded excited. His voice squealed into unintelligibility before Ratchet readjusted for the fourth time. _ “—re great! This place is a maze.” _

_ “Let me add some schematics…” _ It took a little bit of doing, but Ratchet was able to configure a road map, of sorts, of Ultra Magnus’ frame.  _ “That should help you get around. Now get moving! The nearest nanocons are just around that sensor relay.” _

It was exactly the sort of zany, ad hoc “medicine” Ratchet normally couldn’t stand. He used to roll his optics whenever stories like this were declassified or told around the debriefing table. Brainstorm was no help past the initial shrinking, as far as Ratchet was concerned. He was just thrilled to see his little toy in action, hovering around and poking the displays showing the four “nanobots” or chattering to his microscope. 

Ratchet ignored him.

And yet, for all its insanity, the stupid plan was actually working. Rodimus, Skids, First Aid and Whirl were destroying nanocons in droves, chasing them from where’d they’d entered Ultra Magnus’ systems in his torso to his head. They were making fantastic time along with, if the occasional chatter was anything to go by, having a fantastic time. 

_ “Did you see that? Did you see that?! That was awesome!” _

_ “Pfft! That was nothing! Watch this! I bet I can—” _ A loud noise drowned out the rest of Whirl’s sentence, and Ratchet had to check that he hadn’t just damaged Ultra Magnus. So much for not using blasters. 

_ “What part of ‘no guns’ didn’t you understand, dimwit!” _ Skids yelled.

_ “Whirl tilts his head to regard blue-botty uncomprehendingly. ‘No~ guns…?’ This sentence does not compute…” _

_ “Typical Wrecker! Do you ever shut up?” _

_ “Pfft. No. Besides, Firstie likes my voice.” _

_ “His monologue is pretty entertaining,” _ First Aid agreed.  _ “Especially when I start petting his—” _

_ “TMI!” _ Rodimus shouted, thankfully interrupting  _ that. _

Amazingly, they — even Whirl —  _ were _ keeping their damage to the nanocons. Ratchet wasn’t seeing any sign of stray blaster shots hitting Ultra Magnus’ internals, though the armor’s diagnostics didn’t like their presence any more than it liked the nanocons. They were still foreign material. Fortunately, all the same problems with treating nanocons applied to the four nanobots, so they weren’t in danger from Ultra Magnus’ internal defenses. Still, just to make sure, Ratchet connected to direct his self repair to prioritize repairing the areas they’d already cleared, instead of pointlessly trying to attack either set of invaders.

_ “Okay, the remaining nanocons are congregating together,” _ Ratchet announced when the main body of the armor was clear.  _ “You’ve got them on the run — you need to pursue them up into his head.” _

_ “I would like to point out for the record,” _ Rodimus’ voice was punctuated by several screeches and explosions,  _ “that  _ **_I’m_ ** _ not shooting anything.  _ **_Whirl_ ** _ is the only one shooting.” _

_ “Frag yeah I am! And I’ve got the highest kill count of all you dweebs!” _

_ “You’re doing so well,” _ First Aid praised, and Ratchet could hear Whirl start humming happily.  _ “Ratchet. This place is amazing. Ultra Magnus is so tidy. We never get to see patients this close when we’re all full size.” _

_ “‘I can be tidy!’ Whirl says, clacking his pincers. He is totally not jealous of Big M, even if Firstie is complimenting his mechanisms.” _

_ “Just try to  _ **_keep_ ** _ him tidy, alright?” _ Whirl had better not get the bright idea to do something to make Ultra Magnus less appealing to First Aid. It was already a completely different kind of appeal anyway. At least Ratchet assumed it was; he didn’t see the appeal of  _ Whirl _ to begin with.  _ “Turn left up ahead.” _

_ “Holy frag! _

_ “Yippie!” _

_ “That’s… a lot of nanocons.” _

It sounded like they’d found the main body of the swarm Ratchet had been tracking.  _ “Don’t let them group up,” _ he warned.  _ “If they combine, they’ll explode Ultra Magnus’ helm and crush you all.” _

_ “Hehe… noted. We’re doing good though. Oh! Hey!” _ Rodimus sounded excited again.  _ “Hi Ratch! I can see you!” _

Of course Ultra Magnus’ armor chose that moment to reactivate. Because that was all this situation needed to be just perfect.

“Don’t try to get up just yet,” Ratchet said quickly. If Rodimus could see him, then they must be in his mouth. “And don’t try to talk. Use comms.”

Obediently, Ultra Magnus didn’t so much as twitch.  _ “I had a… very strange dream just now. There was a swarm of nanocons inside me so Brainstorm shrunk Rodimus to go in and fight them off.” _

“Hi!” Brainstorm looked up from the display he was examining, brandishing his gun for no apparent reason Ratchet could discern.

_ “Hello Brainstorm.” _ Ultra Magnus looked back to Ratchet, as though silently pleading him to tell him it had all been nothing more than a bizarre nightmare brought on by a dose of medical script.

Unfortunately, all Ratchet could tell him was, “Close. There  _ is _ a swarm of nanocons, and Brainstorm  _ did _ shrink Rodimus, Skids, First Aid, and Whirl to go in and fight them off. They’re actually doing a great job — all that’s left are the nanocons in your mouth.”

_“Hey, Ratchet? We’ve got a problem,”_ Skids interrupted, drowning out Ultra Magnus’s electronic exclamation of _Whirl?!_ _“Whatever these pistons are for, the nanocons are using them to climb out of range.”_

_ “Not out of  _ **_my_ ** _ range! Die, creepy crawlies!” _

_ “Whirl! Stop shooting—” _

_ “They’re already rusted, what if you break them? Ultra Magnus won’t be able to, to,”  _ Rodimus fumbled,  _ “do whatever these are for anymore.” _

_ “They’re for smiling,”  _ First Aid supplied helpfully.

Whirl cackled.  _ “‘That mean I can break them?’ Whirl asks his bestest frag-buddy. ‘He doesn’t need—’” _

_ “Do you  _ **_ever_ ** _ interalize your thoughts?” _

_ “That’s  _ **_possible?”_ **

_ “Whatever we’re doing, we need to do it fast. They’re going to escape!” _

Ratchet drummed his fingers on the edge of the berth, trying to think over all the voices. Brainstorm was telling Ultra Magnus how fortuitous the timing of his collapse was, Ultra Magnus was lamenting that the nanocons were supposed to have all been destroyed (apparently he  _ had  _ known he’d been infected, but thought the problem had been dealt with vorns ago when it initially happened), and Whirl was narrating an aerial dance routine punctuated by blaster fire while Rodimus and Skids both yelled at him to stop it.

_ “They’re burrowing  _ **_into_ ** _ the pistons, Ratchet,”  _ First Aid said, his concern evident.  _ “Whirl’s not going to be able to get them all before they break through. What do we do?” _

“I don’t  _ know  _ what we can do! Unless…” Ratchet turned to Ultra Magnus. “I need you to do something for me.”

_ “Yes, Ratchet?” _

“I realize this is going to be difficult, but there really is no other way. I need you to,” Ratchet gave Ultra Magnus an exaggerated smile, “smile.”

_ “What?” _

“Like this,” Ratchet pointed at his own face. “Activate the pistons in your mouth to smile. Moving them will destroy the remaining nanocons. You have to,” he added, before Ultra Magnus could argue. “If you don’t, they’ll claw their way out of your frame and spread to the rest of the ship.”

Ratchet saw the corners of Ultra Magnus’s mouth twitch, a false start as he tried to copy Ratchet’s expression. Then his mouth curved upward, slowly, and the most uncomfortable, creepy, patently false smile Ratchet had ever seen in his life painted itself on Ultra Magnus’ otherwise serious face.

_ “Woot! They’re exploding!” _

_ “Always gotta ruin my fun…” _

_ “Don’t worry Whirl. We’ll—” _ The rest of First Aid’s statement was fortunately drowned out by exploding nanocons.

_ “This is humiliating,” _ Ultra Magnus complained.

It was a relief, as far as Ratchet was concerned. His own smile became more genuine as he watched the readouts for the nanocons shrinking and shrinking on the scanner before disappearing altogether. “It’s a success!” he told Ultra Magnus. “The nanocons have been destroyed.”

Immediately the smile dropped from Ultra Magnus’ face and he resumed his customary frown.  _ “Good. If it’s not too much to ask, I would like everyone to get out of my body.” _

“If they’re still in his mouth, it’s probably easiest for them to come out from there,” Brainstorm suggested cheerfully. “I’ll get a petri dish ready.”

_ “Everyone, move to the middle of his mouth,”  _ Ratchet told the group before instructing Ultra Magnus, “Okay, I need you to open your mouth  _ slowly.” _

_ “Whirl! Get back here!” _

_ “You’re no fun. No-fun Roddy-ploddy.” _

Brainstorm returned with a small glass dish. “All aboard!”

Ratchet took the dish and, with the aid of a magnifier, transferred First Aid, Skids, and Rodimus into it. Whirl flew over on his own, mock-jousting with Ratchet’s fingers in the process.

“All out,” Ratchet assured Ultra Magnus. “And your scans are normal — very minimal residual damage, all perfectly within your self repair’s ability to restore.” And almost all of it a result of the nanocons, not (miraculously) the berserk rotary tearing around after them. He returned control of Ultra Magnus’ self repair to his own systems, then disconnected and stepped away to  _ not  _ hand the dish immediately over to Brainstorm. “You  _ can  _ reverse this, right?”

“That’s what we’re testing,” Brainstorm answered happily. “Science time!”

“Testing?!”

“Well, yeah.” The jet was completely unbothered by Ratchet’s tone. “Shrinking something’s the easy part. I’ve been able to do that for quartexes. I  _ just _ finished adding the reverse function.”

Ratchet bit back a curse. He wished there’d been more time at the start of the whole mess to ask a few questions and take better precautions! But done was done. It was too late now to do anything but hope it would work.  _ “In the interest of full disclosure,”  _ he told the tiny mechs in the dish as he handed it over,  _ “Brainstorm has never un-shrunk anyone before.” _

They clamored angrily while Brainstorm took them over to a spare medberth and set the dish down in the center of it. He was completely unbothered by their complaints, too; he just hummed as he moved the table with his microscope so it had a “better view” of that berth, then fiddled with the Mass-Displacement Gun’s settings before leaping back and shooting another beam of blue light at the petri dish. 

To Ratchet’s  _ utter relief _ the process was as uneventful as actually shrinking them had been. The light grew until he could see the shapes of the mechs within, then faded, leaving behind a pile of full sized mechs in a tangle of limbs and plating.

“Here,” Ratchet offered his hand to Skids, who’d somehow come out on top. Skids used the leverage to pull himself up and step clear of the others with a soft grunt of thanks. “Next?”

Next was Rodimus, who added a flashy flourish as he regained his balance. “Well… that happened.” He didn’t sound at all displeased about the adventure.

“Yes. It did.” Ratchet wasn’t displeased with the outcome, but flying by the aft wasn’t his preferred way to practice medicine.

And speaking of flying afts… 

“Whirl! If you and First Aid need to celebrate your ‘incredible exploits’,” he said, fingers twitching around the air quotes, “then I suggest you take it to your habsuite.”

First Aid giggled, and swatted at one of Whirl’s wandering claws. “Aren’t I still on shift?”

“I think we can swap out for what’s left of it. I started this case and I ran it, so it’s only fair I take care of the paperwork.” Besides, working would keep Ratchet from thinking about— it would get Whirl out of the medbay. “Go ahead.”

First Aid and Whirl just looked at each other. “Whirl thinks that your habsuite is closer,” Whirl announced.

“Okay. Medbay’s yours, Ratchet,” First Aid formally handed over the reins.

Skids had already cleared out, and Rodimus was pulling Ultra Magnus out by the hand. “Come on, we still had a thing you wanted to discuss about our course…”

Brainstorm was the only one lingering. His microscope had (thankfully) already been packed up, and now he was checking over his briefcase for something, Ratchet was sure he couldn’t guess what. They hadn’t even used whatever Brainstorm carried around inside that thing.

“In the interest of scientific progress,” Ratchet said, somewhat reluctantly, “would you like a copy of the report when I finish it?”

“Sure. It’ll be interesting reading.” He met Ratchet’s optics, and the medic could see the smile in the yellow lenses. “This was exciting. I like making things that go boom, but a novel outcome every once in a while keeps things interesting.”

“Well, this was certainly a good time for a novel outcome.” Several mechs would have died, otherwise. Maybe even all of them. “Thank you.”

“All part of the great Brainstorm package!” Briefcase in hand, he turned to leave, then hesitated at the door.

Ratchet looked over at him, torn between concern that he’d want to hang around, and concern for him. “Did you need something?”

“Not from you,” Brainstorm answered bluntly. “This is the part where I’d usually go brag about my genius to Perceptor, but he’s got a visitor right now.” He made some sort of vague gesture with his hands. “Doesn’t feel right to start a new project.”

“Swerve’s is open again,” Ratchet suggested, carefully not thinking about who Perceptor’s visitor was. He could guess, but he didn’t want to imagine who Drift was hiding — from him — with. Instead he thought about how his stint on punishment detail, and the promise of never opening the bar again, had made Swerve relent about adhering to the health codes and it should have reopened right after the trial. “Perceptor might not be there, but there’ll be an audience of some kind. And engex.”

Brainstorm brightened. “That’s a good idea. Thanks, Ratchet.” 

Spirits lifted, he flitted out the door, leaving Ratchet alone in the (thankfully) empty medbay.

Ratchet threw himself into work. There was nothing he could do about Drift yet, so there was no point dwelling on it. He couldn’t clear up their misunderstanding until he talked with Rodimus, and he couldn’t talk to Rodimus until the captain was done with whatever he was doing with Ultra Magnus.

So. Medical charting and reporting it was.

First, of course, were Ultra Magnus’ records. Those were locked; First Aid wouldn’t have been able to open them, not the full records anyway. Not the ones that tracked the health of the armor and the mech inside separately. This incident was significant enough that it was possible there’d be mechs still talking about it when whoever inherited the armor next was trying to get his bearings and step into a centuries’ old history and reputation, so the records had to be complete enough to be informative. Then there was the medbay’s general log, the incident reports for the command staff, the scans and reports he’d promised Brainstorm…

It was delightfully time consuming. The sheer amount of work was enough to keep Ratchet busy for the rest of the shift, despite the lack of any further patients. He even became so absorbed in his tasks that he initially missed Ambulon coming in when the time came for the shift change. He only noticed he was no longer alone when he looked up as he stretched and saw the other medic settled in on one of the medberths, doing his own reports in lieu of having anyone to repair.

“You could have said something,” Ratchet said, even though he knew why Ambulon hadn’t. Pharma hadn’t taken interruptions well, and keeping a low profile among the Decepticons was just a good strategy in general. Old habits died hard. “Have you been there long?”

“Not very,” he lied politely, though Ratchet knew he had to have been there at least since the start of his shift. “Exciting cycle.” Unlike Rodimus and First Aid and Brainstorm, he sounded glad to have missed it.

“Very exciting. Technically, even a breakthrough cycle in the treatment of nanocons,” Ratchet admitted. With better controls and actual planning, the ridiculous escapade had the potential to become a truly effective protocol… if the equipment necessary to shrink and unshrink mechs could be reasonably reproduced, and an appropriate team of mechs was available to go in. It would still be better with fast drones who wouldn’t shoot up the inside of the patient. “All very preliminary right now, but given the prognosis in the past was certain death, it’s an improvement.”

“Another successful experimental medical procedure for First Aid to sign his name to,” Ambulon said, real fondness belying the otherwise scathing nature of the sentence. “Goody.”

“As the assisting physician, yes. I was the one running the case since the hearing ended early, and really, its success was mostly on Brainstorm.” And, disturbingly, Whirl, though Ratchet would never say so out loud.

“I’m sure he’s thrilled.” Ambulon gathered up his reports. “If you want to take off, I’ll hold down the fort so you can get some recharge.”

“Thanks. I don’t have anything to pass on, so you’ve got time to work on whatever.” Ratchet didn’t head to his habsuite as he left, however. Now was not the time for recharge. He needed to find Rodimus.

The bar was the closest likely locale. Ratchet decided to start there; it would be easy enough to tell if Rodimus was there without even setting foot in the door. Quiet the captain was not when he was drinking.

He wasn’t drinking though. A quick look inside Swerve’s showed only Swerve behind the counter, Tailgate and Skids sitting at it, and a handful of others around the edges of the room. Brainstorm must have decided to start on a new project after all, or else had just gone off to recharge, because he was nowhere in sight.

Ratchet went to the bridge next, where a surreptitious look revealed Drift staring out at the starfield like he was trying to lose himself in it. Drift usually encouraged the pilot, comms officer, and others to engage in casual chatter, or play music, as long as the atmosphere remained harmonious, but right now the silence was almost brittle. Ratchet ducked out before anyone could see him. 

From there he went to Rodimus’ office. As Ratchet approached, he could see light spilling from the cracked open door — an invitation. Still, he knocked first. Might as well start out polite, since things were almost guaranteed to devolve quickly. “Rodimus? Do you have a breem?”

Rodimus looked up from the mound of datapads he was going through. He looked worried, but he gave Ratchet a welcoming smile. “For my favorite medic, I’ve even got two.”

“Favorite, huh?” Not for much longer. Ratchet stepped in and glanced at the door. “Would you mind locking it?”

Rodimus tilted his head curiously, but obediently the door closed and locked. “What’s up?” He cleared the datapads from the center of the desk, revealing the random pattern of doodles beneath.

Ratchet ignored them. “Something serious has come to my attention — something that poses a threat to the lives of everyone on this ship, yet for some reason I wasn’t informed of.” It was hard,  _ so  _ hard, not to just slam a hand down over those doodles and demand to know what the frag Overlord was doing on the  _ Lost Light  _ and why he hadn’t known about it, but he’d kept it together this long. He wasn’t going to blow it now. “Rodimus, we need to talk about—”

“Mmhmm,” Rodimus hummed absently. He was— Rodimus was  _ ignoring  _ him. He was busy adding a line of what appeared to be some sort of text to a blank area of his desk!

“Captain!” Ratchet’s barely leashed temper threatened to break free. He tried again to rein it back, but there was still a growl in his voice as he said, “I really need your full attention for this.”

Ratchet’s spoiler jerked in surprise. “Ratchet I am pa— I’m not.” He looked down at the new doodle with confusion. “What’s this? I don’t…” He shook himself and very firmly put down the laser pen. “Sorry, Ratch. I’m paying attention now.”

“Are you though?” Ratchet folded his arms and stared at Rodimus, distracted in spite of himself and annoyed by that fact. He really needed to talk about Overlord, but Rodimus didn’t usually get distracted  _ that  _ quickly. He usually listened long enough to decide if he needed to hear the rest, and Ratchet hadn’t even really said anything yet. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I  _ am _ paying attention,” he huffed, a little defensively. “I don’t know why I spaced out on you, but I won’t do it again.”

“It looks like you spaced out on more than me, if you don’t remember drawing that.” They’d just finished dealing with the nanocon emergency. Ratchet was not letting Rodimus come down with something too. “What happened?”

Rodimus gave Ratchet a suspicious look, then looked down at the line of nonsense text. “I don’t know. It just happened. I don’t know what it is or why I’d draw  _ that.” _

“Can you go back in your logs? Did you lose any time? I’m just trying to make sure you’re alright,” Ratchet said when the suspicion on Rodimus’ face deepened. “Consciously ignoring people is one thing, but zoning out like that isn’t like you.”

Rodimus brightened at the show of concern, then his optics dimmed as he went over his activity logs. “I did lose a few nanokliks,” he said, a little reluctantly. “But everything’s back to normal now. I’m fine.”

“I’d feel more confident about that if you’d let me get a quick scan,” Ratchet said, trying not to worry too much. That short a lapse wasn’t likely to be anything serious, but if it happened again… 

The ship’s intercom beeped on Rodimus’ desk and he gave Ratchet a  _ hold on just a moment _ gesture while he answered. “What’s up?”

_ “The dead mech just moved!” _ Red Alert screeched loud enough to make them both flinch.  _ “We need to lock down the ship and examine everyone on board for reanimation viruses! Or control devices! Or, or — I don’t know, but  _ **_I’m not being paranoid!”_ **

“Alright, Red. I’ll send someone down immediately,” Rodimus soothed. “Where are you?”

_ “Engine room!” _

“Gotcha.” Rodimus cut the connection, then looked at Ratchet. “Sorry. Duty calls, apparently.”

“Apparently.” From one disaster to another… Ratchet sighed. “Did you want me to go, or have Rung do it?”

_ “Ratchet? You still awake?” _ Ambulon pinged him right as the intercom on Rodimus’ desk went off again.

_ “We’ve arrived at Theophany,” _ this time it was Drift, from the bridge.  _ “And we’ve got company. It’s the Galactic Council.” _

And from disaster to catastrophe. Ratchet held up a hand to let Rodimus know he’d gotten a call too, then let the captain deal with Drift while he answered Ambulon.  _ “I’m still awake — go ahead.” _

_ “The off-liners just moved. They’re trying to squeeze their brain modules out through their audios.” _

_“They’re_ ** _what?!”_** Ratchet exclaimed. Red Alert’s panicked message suddenly took on a whole new perspective. Were the dead really coming back to life? “Rodimus, I’ve got a situation in the medbay. More miraculous revivals,” he said, passing along the information. 

“Magnus is meeting me on the bridge to deal with the Council.” Rodimus breezed past Ratchet, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “Good luck.”

“You too,” Ratchet said, and meant it. The Council was not at all friendly toward Cybertronians, and their presence here didn’t bode well for them.  _ “I’m on my way, Ambulon. If you haven’t already, restrain the patients so they don’t do any further damage to themselves.”  _ Then, just to make sure, he pinged Rung.  _ “Did Rodimus call you?” _

_ “Acknowledged,” _ Ambulon answered just as Rung answered with,  _ “No. Should he have?” _

_ “He was going to, but then something came up.”  _ Ratchet couldn’t even fault Rodimus for forgetting Red Alert under the circumstances. He might have just assumed Ratchet would take care of it — just like he was doing now — and left it unsaid.  _ “Red Alert’s down in the engine room panicking about Ore coming back to life. I’m on my way to the medbay to help Ambulon with a couple of mechs on life support who just started moving again too, so he might not be jumping at shadows.” _ The timing was too close to be a coincidence.

_ “I’ll go see if I can get Red Alert calmed down,” _ Rung answered.  _ “I’ll let you what’s happening.” _

_ “Thanks. Be careful.”  _ If it was anyone besides Red Alert, Ratchet would have suggested Rung take someone with him, but he’d have better luck calming the security officer alone.

When Ratchet arrived at the medbay, he found Ambulon had already finished putting the patients in restraints. “What happened?” He walked over to start reviewing the data from the monitors. “They just suddenly started trying to crush their own heads?”

“Basically.” Ambulon didn’t sound perturbed, but the way he looked down at them showed the incident had rattled him. “They all moved at the same time, clamping their hands on their audios.”

Ratchet checked the timestamps. Then he checked them again. They still coincided with Rodimus’ unconscious doodling, and with Red Alert’s call. “Something very strange is going on here.” Especially since according to all their readings, these mechs were still entirely unconscious, no activity in their brain modules beyond the minimum required to not be dead. 

Dutifully, now that they weren’t in danger of accidentally offlining themselves, Ambulon was making the rounds and updating all their charts to reflect their movement. Ratchet didn’t interfere, continuing to puzzle over the lack of information provided by the monitors. If their brain modules weren’t responsible for the movement, what was? 

_ Reanimation viruses! Control devices! _

Ratchet snorted. The first was patently ridiculous, at least without exposure to the Dead Universe, which would have been apparent long before any zombies started showing up, but he could check for foreign devices in their motor relays. 

_ “I don’t think I’ll be able to calm Red Alert down this time,” _ Rung interrupted right as Ratchet had found the appropriate scanner and was taking it back to the life support room. He sounded  _ extremely _ rattled.  _ “Ore really has, apparently… come back to life.” _

Frozen in place, Ratchet tried to make sense of that.  _ “He’s fused with the body of the ship. He  _ **_can’t_ ** _ come back to life.” _

_ “He’s still fused with the engine,” _ Rung answered with a sort of forced calm.  _ “But he’s also talking. I sent Red Alert to start checking the rest of the engine room for anything he thinks might be causing this,” _ something that would, potentially, take joors while he interrogated dust bunnies,  _ “and am trying to keep Ore calm, but he is undoubtedly… alive.” _

_ “Talking.”  _ Rung was  _ talking  _ with a dead mech. Who was talking back. Ratchet couldn’t believe he was asking, but,  _ “What is he saying?”  _

_ “Initially he was panicking about being unable to move or see. I’ve told him he’s in the medbay, being repaired.” _

Ambulon was clearly, once again, not willing to interrupt, but he was looking at Ratchet where he’d stopped in the middle of the main bay from the door to the life support room. Ratchet walked up to him and handed over the equipment he’d retrieved. “Scan for any foreign devices that might explain their movement,” he said. “I need to go check on something in the engine room.”

“Yes, sir.” Ambulon did as he was instructed without asking any questions.

Satisfied that he — as an experienced medic — could look after some unconscious, handcuffed, patients, Ratchet headed off to deal with this new medical mystery. 

His comm crackled before he reached his destination.  _ “Hey, Ratch?” _ Rodimus’ wasn’t exactly the voice he wanted hear.  _ “Got an extra medic? We’re putting together a team to go down to the surface.” _

_ “Are we expecting trouble? Scratch that,”  _ Ratchet said as soon as he’d finished the sentence.  _ “Of course we’re expecting trouble.” _

_ “I mean, the Circle still haven’t answered any of our attempts to communicate. Drift says they can handle themselves, but—” _

_ “Ask First Aid.”  _ He could use the experience, and if Whirl was still with him, he’d probably enjoy the ‘adventure’. _ “Ambulon and I are both occupied at the moment.” _

_ “Gotcha.” _ A klik later, Ratchet got the ping from the medbay’s scheduling computer that First Aid had moved himself from off duty to on.

When he arrived in the engine room, Ratchet noticed right away that there was something unsettling about the atmosphere, an  _ off _ quality to the thrum of the quantum drives, or… something.  _ Not  _ the fact that a sparkeater had died here, but the room was grey and  _ cold, _ well lit and still somehow dark save for the banks of computer screens. 

Ratchet found Rung and Ore easily enough. The duobot hadn’t moved at all from where he’d been when Ratchet himself had confirmed spark death. Except, now, there was a dim yellow light in the mech’s visible optic. 

“Here’s Ratchet now,” Rung said soothingly. “He’ll be able to tell you more about the  _ accident _ you were damaged in.”

With an incredulous look to Rung, Ratchet tried playing along. “Nice to have you back with us, Ore. You were damaged pretty badly.”

“Feels like it,” Ore answered slowly, like his body wasn’t keeping up with his mind. “Or rather, it doesn’t. I can’t feel anything. My optics okay? Why are they off?”

His remaining optic looked like it was on to Ratchet (how could it be on, his frame was fused with the ship thanks to a botched quantum jump!). “Your processor was crashing trying to process too much data, so they’re off to reduce input,” he temporized. Reassuring a disoriented, frightened patient wasn’t anything new to him; he could do that much, even if the patient was already dead and the entire situation was impossible. “Like I said, lots of damage. Most of your sensors are off so you won’t be in pain.”

“Oh. Good. You’ll fix me up, right doc?”

Rung just sent Ratchet a helpless look when he turned to him. Even if Ratchet had a reputation for miracles,  _ this _ was beyond anyone’s ability to fix. Half of both Ore’s spark casing and brain module were just plain  _ gone, _ to say nothing of the other parts of him fused to the engine. His mouth wasn’t even moving; his voice was just emanating from (Ratchet assumed) his entombed vocalizer in a manner that was decidedly creepy.

“Doing my best,” Ratchet said, unwilling to give false hope. “Let me know if you start to feel anything. I’m going to run a few tests.” Powering up his onboard scanner, Ratchet started making passes over what was left of Ore, searching for an explanation.

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the scan was conclusive: what they were looking at was a nearly random assortment of dead parts, not a live Cybertronian. There was a weird ghosting effect, where some of Ore’s parts that overlapped with the engine appeared to both be there and not. But even when Ratchet could hone in on those elements, they still appeared fully dead. Even his visibly lit optic was inert, cold, and powerless on the readout.

“You got anything for nightmares?” Ore asked after a breem. “Not sure I want to go back into stasis until that’s not lurking in my mind.”

“I’m not sure how effective the usual remedies will be for you in your current state, but I’ll see what I can do.” Ratchet gave Rung a pointed look. “You were having nightmares?”

“Screaming,” Ore whispered brokenly. “I heard screaming. The sort of scream that goes straight to the spark. I couldn’t block it out, cover my audios, even tear my own spark out… and I  _ wanted _ to. Anything to make the screaming stop…” 

_ “Don’t tell him I’m back,” _ Red Alert pinged suddenly.  _ “I brought everything we need!” _

_ “Everything we need?”  _ Ratchet turned to see what he was talking about, not letting on to Ore that Red Alert had arrived. “Can you still hear the screaming now?”

“Yeah… just a little.”

Red Alert had an armful of… stuff.  _ “For an exorcism!” _

_ “Rung, would you, just…”  _ Ratchet waved a hand at Red Alert and his exorcism stuff. He didn’t have a better explanation than ghosts to give him, other than the fact that ghosts didn’t exist. Then again, the clinically dead also didn’t talk about hearing screams. “Focus on my voice instead then, alright? We can keep talking while I work.”

Rung shot Ratchet a  _ really? _ look, and stepped closer to Red Alert to put one hand on the security director’s arm while they talked.  _ “Ratchet’s still trying to figure out what caused this,” _ he soothed.

_ “It’s a ghost! Or a demon! I’m not sure which, but whichever it is, it  _ **_needs to go.”_ ** Red Alert started to gesture wildly, but was hampered by the… exorcism supplies he’d found.  _ “We  _ **_cannot_ ** _ have  _ **_another_ ** _ haunting on this ship!” _

“Thanks doc,” Ore said gratefully while the other two mechs argued silently. “When I woke up, I thought I’d maybe been left behind on a battlefield somewhere. I saw… I don’t know what they were. Not Decepticons, but some sort of soldiers fighting against…” he trailed off. “Hey, is this what you thought you’d be doing with the war was over, doc? Haring off into the unknown, looking for a legend?”

“Me?” Ratchet faltered momentarily, but he had just said they could talk, and Ore sounded almost desperate for a distraction. “I… didn’t think much about ‘when the war was over’.” After a while, part of him had stopped believing that time would ever come. If he’d had any hopes or dreams left at the end, they’d failed along with his hands. “I had too much to do in the now. Patients to treat, lives to save. It’s what I’m still doing, and it’s why I’m here. Looking for legends is Rodimus’ thing.” His, and Drift’s.

“Me an’ Shock, we only joined up to help out a friend,” Ore confided. “We’ll probably split when we get near someplace like Hedonia. Maybe track down someone who can hook me up with a new alt mode. Something with nice curves. Totally impractical, but… Small dreams, I guess.”

_ “The ship  _ **_IS_ ** _ haunted!!” _ Red Alert screeched over their shared comm channel.  _ “Why am I the only one who sees it! Sparkeaters, a monster in the basement, and now thi— I  _ **_know_ ** _ what you said that was, but obviously it’s part of the supernatural conspiracy plaguing this ship!” _

Oh, great. Red Alert thought some sort of ghost-monster was masquerading around as Overlord now?

Absently Ratchet wondered if letting him believe that was better than the truth.

_ “I’m not saying you’re wrong this time, Red Alert,” _ Rung said, attempting to placate him.  _ “I’m just advising we wait until Ratchet’s done before we proceed.” _

Ore. Focus on Ore. “Well, the war  _ is  _ over. Now’s a good time for those small dreams,” Ratchet said, casting about for examples from some of the others on the ship. “Pipes finally got to set foot on an alien planet, and Swerve opened a bar.”

“That’s good! Good for them!” Ore sighed. “I always kind of wanted to befriend a Decepticon once the war was over. Shock says a lot of them are MTOs. Didn’t exactly choose to be evil, so they can’t all be bad, right?”

Of all the absurdities, Ratchet found himself smiling slightly. “Even the ones who chose to be Decepticons didn’t all do it because they were evil. Some of them just thought it was the right thing to do to make Cybertron better. But things change, and not everyone gets a chance to remake their choices.” Drift had been lucky, in that sense. “And Shock was absolutely right about the MTOs.”

“Yeah doc? You speaking from experience there?”

“Yeah. You were already d—” Ratchet stopped himself just in time “—damaged before we reached Delphi, so you haven’t met him, but one of the medics there was a former Decepticon MTO. He’s a little reserved, but he’s a good mech.” Though speaking of Ambulon reminded him of something, and Ratchet called back to the medbay.  _ “Ambulon, you said the off-liners were covering their audios, right?” _

_ “Yes, sir,” _ the other medic answered promptly.  _ “Still are… I, ah. When I was done with the tests you wanted me to run — negative, by the way — I let one of them loose, just long enough to see if he’d do it again. I didn’t let him hurt himself,” _ he almost snapped defensively, _ “but, whatever’s happening is still ongoing.” _

“Yeah?” The information about a former-Decepticon medic definitely interested Ore; it seemed he’d been serious about his post-war dream. “Maybe you can send him my way and we can talk.”

That was… not a trauma Ratchet wanted to inflict on Ambulon. “I’ll let him know you’d like to talk with him,” he said anyway. He reeeeally hoped that whatever this was, it would be over before Ore had a chance to follow up on that promise.  _ “I’d say check their neural patterns to see if they’re responding to an auditory stimulus, but that’ll probably be useless.”  _ Circumstantially, there was still enough evidence for Ratchet to wonder if they weren’t hearing the scream Ore described too. 

_ “I’ll check anyway,” _ Ambulon said before that commline went silent. 

_ “Ratchet?” _ Rung pinged him on the other line.  _ “Red Alert wants to set up his… exorcism. He promises he won’t get in your way. There’s really no harm, and he’s starting to think you’ve been possessed as well.” _

_ “No one’s been ‘possessed’,”  _ Ratchet grumbled, but he could see Rung’s point: the absolute worst that could happen would be that it’d actually work.  _ “Red Alert, you can start setting things up if you want — he definitely can’t see us.”  _ Then, drawing on what he knew from Drift, said,  _ “Do you have a manual with the proper prayers to read from? It’s a highly complex ritual and you don’t want to get any of the words wrong.” _

Red Alert squawked and dropped his things to run from the room. Maybe he had an idea of where to find a manual, maybe he didn’t; either way, he was out of  _ their  _ way for the moment. Ironically, Ratchet actually had a manual himself, in the form of Gleam’s writings, but there was no way he was going to admit to having a datapad full of Decepticon writings (including multiple copies of  _ Toward Peace) _ to the ship’s paranoid security director.

Rung just sighed.  _ “I’m going to be dealing with the fallout of this for  _ **_vorns.”_ **

“Not sure I’d trust a ‘Con who chose to be one, though,” Ore said, continuing the almost forgotten conversation, unaware of what the other three were doing around him.

“No? I suppose there aren’t many I would trust either, but I can’t lump them all together like I used to.” Things just weren’t that simple anymore. “What about ‘Cons who switched sides? Like Drift?” 

Ore scoffed. “Megatron’s little pet? Not sure I’d believe anything  _ he _ had to say. Dunno why he’s even on this ship.”

“Because Rodimus wanted him here,” Ratchet said, and left it at that. Rodimus might be the captain, but the quest wouldn’t have started without Drift. “Not everyone can be friends after so long on opposite sides. Trying to force everyone to get along… well, you saw how well that was going back on Cybertron.”

“Yeah. I just don’t get how anyone could  _ choose _ that scrap.” Not having gotten an argument from Ratchet, Ore ran out of vehemence and just sounded tired. “Then to say, ‘so sorry, my bad, didn’t mean to try and kill all of you’… it’s just. At best it’s indecisive, right?”

It was so surreal, standing there talking to what his scanners still determinedly said was a dead collection of mech-and-ship parts, trying to offer comfort and distract what nonetheless seemed to be Ore from realizing that fact. Ratchet could feel his composure starting to crack, and imagined Rung pencilling that impending mental breakdown back into his schedule. “From some Decepticons I’d say it’s downright disingenuous,” he said, not mentioning that he didn’t believe Drift was one such, in part  _ because _ he still believed in the Cause he’d originally sworn himself to. “I hope you are able to find one you can befriend though. It’s a good goal.”

_ “Ratchet,” _ Ambulon thankfully interrupted,  _ “I found something. Seems they  _ **_are_ ** _ responding to some sort of auditory stimulus. I had to, uh, reconfigure one of your scanners to display their current neural activity as though it was normal activity, but once I did that, it showed clearly that their audial pathways  _ **_and_ ** _ emotional centers are responding to something.” _

_ “Send me the scan configuration,”  _ Ratchet said, wondering if he could get his scanner to show the same.  _ “Have any of them tried to say anything?” _

_ “No. They’re not even fighting the restraints. They just try to block out the whatever-it-is out if they’re free to move.” _ The settings appeared on Ratchet’s HUD and he winced. That wasn’t “reconfiguring” a scanner; that was butchering its programming then piecing the ones and zeros back together with duct tape. Looked like someone had been taking lessons in improvising from First Aid.

Deciding against mangling his own scanner the same way, Ratchet simply thanked Ambulon and turned to Rung.  _ “The off-lined patients in the medbay seem to be hearing the scream too. Whatever this is,”  _ and it  _ wasn’t  _ ghosts or demons!  _ “it’s got something to do with that.” _

_ “That would imply there  _ **_is_ ** _ something screaming,” _ Rung offered with a helpless look.  _ “We just can’t hear it. That’s rather… disturbing, isn’t it? That something could be screaming like that, but that you’d have to be dead, or almost so, to hear it?” _

Dead, almost dead… or Rodimus. Rodimus  _ Prime. _

_ “There  _ **_has_ ** _ to be a signal of some kind they’re picking up — Ore and the off-liners are receiving it as a scream, but Rodimus got something different.”  _ Ratchet grabbed a still from his recent memory-cache and forwarded it to Rung.  _ “He spaced out and drew this right when this all started.” _

Rung adjusted his glasses as Ore started telling Ratchet all about everything he and Shock were going to do once they jumped ship at the nearest pleasure port.  _ “‘Set me free?’ That’s not ominous at  _ **_all._ ** _ But certainly in keeping with the theme of screaming, I suppose.” _

_ “That’s what it says?” _

_ “Yes. There’s a little wiggle room in the minor glyphs, but the speaker does consider himself trapped by something and is imploring — desperately — to be released. He’s not speaking to a jailer though, just screaming for help from anyone with the power to aid him.” _

Nope. Definitely not ominous at all.

As if to underscore the thought, the lights chose that moment to start flickering.

“Oh, what  _ now?”  _ Ratchet said out loud, unable to help himself. Hadn’t he dealt with enough already this cycle?!

“What? What is it?” Ore asked, sounding worried.

“The lights are acting up.” Ratchet glared up at them, as if that would make them knock it off.

“Glitchy ship. I bet it’s the quantum engines. A friend of mine once said never to trust a ship with quantum engines. There’s just too much about them that’s based on cosmic dice rolling.”

All Ratchet could think about that was,  _ Too late. _

An  _ urgent! _ ping lit up on Ratchet’s HUD right before Rodimus’ voice came through. It was tinny and full of static and distortion.  _ “Ratchet! Rung! You’ve got to tell Ore the truth. Now!” _

_ “The truth… you mean, tell him he’s dead? Wait,”  _ Ratchet said, confused,  _ “how did you know he doesn’t know that?” _

_ “Lucky guess,” _ Rodimus sounded tense, almost panicked.  _ “The  _ Lost Light _ needs to jump, now, or you’re all dead and Magnus can’t do it from the bridge.” _

_ “Revealing what happened to him will… it will drive him insane! We can’t do that!” _ Rung protested.

_ “You’re talking about doing something very cruel to a mech who’s already been through enough,”  _ Ratchet added. Assuming they were (somehow, impossibly) really talking to Ore, he didn’t deserve that.  _ “Why can’t Ultra Magnus jump us?” _

_ “Some sort of Galactic Council weapon. The ship is  _ **_currently under attack._ ** _ I think — I  _ **_hope_ ** _ that the emotional upheaval’ll make the ship jump to… anywhere but where you currently are.” _

“What’s going on? You still there, doc?”

Rung looked at the dead mech, who was blindly doing his best to look around despite his situation.  _ “No, Rodimus. Find another way. We  _ **_can’t_ ** _ do that.” _

“I’m still here,” Ratchet assured Ore, hesitating over what else he should say as Rung’s gaze swung around to him. “Still trying to figure out what to do about the lights.”

_ “You two  _ **_listen to me:_ ** _ you  _ **_will_ ** _ tell him. I’m  _ **_ordering_ ** _ you to! You need to  _ **_survive!”_ **

_ “I’m sorry, Captain. I cannot obey that order,” _ Rung said icily.

_ “Rodimus — what you wrote on your desk.”  _ The message wasn’t in keeping with hurting Ore like that, even if it was meant for (or from) whatever was animating him.  _ “It said, ‘set me free’.”  _ Ratchet attached all the subglyph translations Rung had mentioned, hoping something about it would make sense to Rodimus. 

_ “I’ll do that,” _ Rodimus said.  _ “But you need to  _ **_go._ ** _ Bye Ratch, Rung. See you in the next life.” _

The line went silent.

_ “No,” _ Rung sent to Ratchet privately before he could say anything.

_ “But—”  _ But what? Rodimus had sounded certain that they were going to die. That he and the ground team were  _ already  _ beyond saving, and that the window for the rest of them to escape was rapidly closing. Now that he’d been made aware of the danger, Ratchet could pick up a distinct increase in the ambient temperature on his instruments. If it kept getting hotter… Was it worth the lives of everyone on board to save the sanity of a single mech who was already dead?

_ “I seem to remember  _ **_someone_ ** _ refusing to send a nanocon infested mech out an airlock just earlier this cycle,” _ Rung almost spat.

_ “That someone had something else he could do,”  _ Ratchet shot back. He didn’t relish the thought at all, but,  _ “What other option do we have now?” _

_ “Something. Anything. Maybe Ultra Magnus will come up with a plan. He’s better at that than he believes. Or Perceptor will reveal he’s miraculously got the perfect invention for the job. I don’t know how, but that mech is alive and talking to us. It’s  _ **_Ore,_ ** _ not just what your scanners are telling you. Tell me, what would you be saying if he had a spark signature?” _

Ratchet’s retort that there’d been more time to find another way with the nanocons died on his tongue. Rung was right. If Ore was a regular patient lying on a medberth instead of… whatever he was, there wouldn’t be any question in his mind. 

“The lights are back on,” he said quietly to Ore. They weren’t. “What were you saying about your plans with Shock once you’re back on your feet?”

At least Rung had the grace not to look victorious or gleeful in the last of the light before the hallway spattered, sparked, and finally went dark. “Before or after we spend a whole decacycle drunk off our afts? Collapsing and recharging for a decacycle,” Ore answered his own question, “then starting all over again. It’s our chance to remake ourselves. Be something that isn’t just fighting…” he trailed off.

Then, “Doc? I gotta ask: do you believe in Primus?”

Ratchet barked out a hollow laugh. Too bad he’d never get the chance to tell Drift that, even as they were about to die, he was still an atheist. “This is  _ me  _ you’re talking to, remember? I—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. With a sharp cry, Ore cut him off, his optic flaring brightly enough to cast shadows in the dark. Ratchet felt something  _ twist  _ and  _ pop!  _ and for a nanoklik his feet lost contact with the floor. Then, as suddenly as it had begun—

—it stopped. 

Ratchet blinked, uncomprehending, at the brightly lit hallway, empty save for him and Rung. Ore was nowhere to be seen.

“…What happened?” 

Rung just looked back at him, equally uncomprehending.

_ “I found a manual!” _ Red Alert announced, careening back into the engine room.

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	9. Chapter 9

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Ratchet kept it together through their miraculous survival — apparently they owed their lives to Brainstorm’s Mass Displacement Gun  _ again, _ as well as a giant dose of deus ex Metrotitan — and through seeing both Red Alert and (at his own request) Rung sedated in the medbay to rest and recover. The away team had landed in a literal heap in the middle of the hallway, but all of them were mobile enough to make it to medical on their own two feet, though it was a near thing in several cases. Apparently they’d had quite the battle, and everyone was tired. 

Initially, treating the array of dents and blaster shots had been almost a relief for Ratchet. It was  _ routine. _ He saw Drift, looking battered in a way that had nothing to do with the scuffs and dents and burn marks, being treated by First Aid, but when Ratchet finished treating the same on Cyclonus and looked up again, Drift was gone.

Eventually everyone was all tucked away safely, mostly in their own quarters. Those left in the medbay were too spent to make any trouble. First Aid was recharging in a heap of Whirl-and-Ambulon on a cot they’d pulled out of storage, but Ambulon said he’d stay awake enough to deal with Red Alert, Rung and the few injured mechs from the away party who hadn’t been released to recover elsewhere.

Which left Ratchet with nothing concrete to do. 

Trudging almost blindly through the halls, he suddenly found it hard to put off thinking about what had happened. From a medical standpoint, he recognized that was a good thing: the crisis was over, and now it was time to process. The problem was he didn’t want to. He wasn’t ready to. Sure, he had an explanation for the incredible phenomena now — barely — but that knowledge didn’t change how unsettling the experience itself had been.

He needed to recharge and defrag, but felt like the slow, steady plodding of his feet was the only thing holding him together. So he kept walking, focusing on the physical motion rather than any particular destination. The floor, the walls, they were solid and there. He was solid too, something he realized part of him was still trying to convince itself of after having accepted they were all going to die.

It wasn’t the first time he’d survived when he was sure he’d had it, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Eventually he realized he was wandering away from the familiar haunts of the medbay and the surrounding medics’ quarters, away from the public areas of the ship, and up through the residential blocks to the officers’ quarters. Ultra Magnus was busy on the bridge, on duty for much the same reason Ambulon currently was. Things had been stressful for him, yes, but hadn’t involved injuries or faith-shattering existential crises. But both Rodimus and Drift were here, hopefully doing what Ratchet couldn’t: recharging and recovering.

For just a moment, Ratchet’s footsteps faltered. Drift still thought he was angry with him about the writings, and while that wasn’t what Ratchet actually had a problem with, he very much hadn’t managed to resolve anything in regards to Overlord. There was a lot hanging between them… but Ratchet didn’t want to talk. He just didn’t want to be alone, and maybe, just maybe, Drift would be okay with that.

He pinged the door when he reached it, hoping Drift would answer.

“It’s open.”

Taking the invitation, Ratchet opened the door and met Drift’s surprised optics. He was kneeling right in the spot Ratchet had originally pegged as reserved for meditation, Great Sword across his lap and just peeking out of its sheath with his hands kept carefully away from both the hilt and sliver of exposed blade. The serenity of the pose did nothing to cover the exhaustion, the hurt, and the grief in his frame and field. It didn’t disguise how his twin swords had been set nearby, within easy reach even in the safety of his quarters.

“Ratchet,” Drift said evenly as he recovered from his surprise and his optics took on a more suspicious glow.

“Drift.” Maybe he should have planned what he wanted to say. Too late now. “There are things we need to talk about, but that’s not why I’m here. I just…” He sighed. “After all that just happened, I’d really like to hold you. Tell me what would be acceptable as a trade for that and I’ll do it.” 

Drift tilted his head. “Bargaining,” he said slowly. “Like a  _ Decepticon?” _ The word sounded… testing, rather than scathing.

“Like  _ you.  _ Your feelings and comfort zones are important, and I’m trying to respect them while I’m intruding on you like this.” Ratchet needed closeness right now, but if Drift needed space, that was perfectly fair. “Maybe I’m not doing a very good job of it. This last cycle has been— it’s been a cycle.” 

“Wait,” Drift implored, though Ratchet hadn’t turned to leave. “Do you…” his voice wavered. “Do you trust me enough to tell you what I’ll trade later?”

“When you say it like that it makes me think I’m not going to like it,” Ratchet said with a hint of a chuckle. “But yes. I do trust you.” Even with the secrets he’d kept, Ratchet knew Drift wouldn’t use this to hurt or take advantage of him later.

“Then come in and lay down. Give me a couple breems to finish this up,” Drift nodded down to the Great Sword to indicate his current meditation.

Tension left Ratchet’s frame so fast he had to steady himself on the door before he could step inside. “Thank you,” he said simply, and settled on the berth with gratitude and relief. He fumbled a bit getting plugged in, but after that was able to lie still and watch Drift.

After the cycle he’d had, he’d almost expected the sword to glow or something silly like that, but everything was just… quiet, as Drift returned to his meditation. Idly Ratchet wondered if the Great Sword was Drift’s usual focus, or if there was something specific he was hoping to accomplish this time. In fact, Ratchet was fairly sure he’d never seen even this much of the blade before. The first time he’d repaired Drift after he’d acquired the thing, he’d fought a powerful sedation code long enough to tell Ratchet not to touch it. Not in the habit of violating his patients’ beliefs — even if they were silly — he’d left the sword where it had fallen.

Ratchet wasn’t sure what the point was, since he had the other two he used, other than as a reminder of his time with the Circle. It was a relic of some sort, but why did Drift insist on  _ carrying _ it, instead of leaving it in his quarters or subspace where it would be safe?

He wasn’t going to ask though. For one, it would be rude to interrupt Drift’s meditation, and for another, he really had had enough philosophical conversation already for one cycle. He was probably going to wind up with memory purges when he truly started to defrag, but at least it wasn’t as disconcerting to think back on everything with Drift right there as a solid, physical reminder they’d made it and it was all over. 

After the promised two breems, Drift said a prayer — Ratchet didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to — and resheathed the sword. He did it oddly, by carefully tilting the sheath to let the sword slide back in on its own, instead of grasping the hilt to push it back in. He latched it in with a strap, then set it aside.

To Ratchet, he still looked haunted as he rearranged all three swords so they were easily accessible from the berth, then sat down. He looked down at Ratchet, seemingly at a loss for what to say.

“Plug in and lie down?” Ratchet suggested, lifting an arm to make a space for him.

Silently, Drift did so. At first hesitant, then soon burrowing into Ratchet’s arms with the same desperation Ratchet himself had felt when he’d decided to see if Drift was willing to put things aside for a little bit. He could feel the fine tremors running through Drift’s frame, the grief in his field.

He knew, from the recap of events he’d gotten while patching everyone up, that the Circle of Light was missing. Mixed as some of his feelings towards them were, Drift had been looking forward to reuniting with them. To finally arrive at Theophany, only to find them gone… Ratchet pulled Drift in close and tucked his head down over Drift’s helm. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could promise; all he could do was offer comfort and support and the hope that things would somehow work out the way that Drift’s presence was proving to him they had today.

“Dai Atlas is alive,” Drift said suddenly. “I can’t hone in on the others, and I don’t have even a bit of connection to those without swords of their own, but I think something terrible is happening.”

“Then we’ll do something about it.” Normally, Ratchet would have cast aspersions on the idea of Drift knowing where someone was thanks to, of all things, a hunk of metal, but not now. “Does Rodimus know?”

“I’ll tell him. I’ll try again next cycle, then I’ll tell him.” He rested his helm on Ratchet’s windshield. “I… I can’t right now. I don’t have the strength,” he whispered.

Ratchet stroked his fingers over Drift’s armor. “None of us do.” Everyone needed time to rest and regroup before they could do anything more. “But soon enough, we’ll have a new heading.”

“Yeah.”

Conviction mingled with exhaustion in the single word. The mix filled the silence that followed, and Ratchet let his optics flicker off. His last conscious thought was of the warmth and weight of Drift in his arms.

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.

The expected memory purges struck some time later. Ratchet didn’t realize it was happening at first, since the nightmare began innocently enough in the engine room with Rung and Ore talking calmly, but then the screaming started. The hallway filled with it, the sound rebounding off the walls, and Ore began screaming with it — his mouth, fused with the ship, impossibly stretched wider and wider, and when his  _ arm  _ ripped free of the engines, Ratchet began screaming too—

Something slammed into his abdomen, then his hands were pulled up to slam against the thrumming engine and he heard another engine somewhere rev with exertion and he couldn’t  _ move—! _

_ “Ratchet!” _ Someone called over the medical emergency commline, the  _ one _ thing always guaranteed to wake him no matter how deep he was in a nightmare, and he jerked awake, almost slamming his chevron into someone’s chest.

Drift’s engine growled angrily. One leg was pressing firmly, almost painfully, against Ratchet’s abdominal plating, where Ratchet couldn’t kick to dislodge him, and Ratchet’s hands were pinned to the wall above the berth by both of Drift’s.

“Awake?”

“Yes.” Consciously, Ratchet forced his frame to relax, even as his voice shook slightly. “Sorry. Yes, I’m awake now.”

Drift released him all at once, swinging off him to lay back down on the berth. “Okay,” he said, with perfect acceptance. “Want to talk about it?”

Did he? Ratchet wasn’t sure. He shook his head, dislodging the last echoes of the scream. “I think I’ll be alright,” he said slowly. “Thanks though. Wish I could say it won’t happen again, but it might. Talking to Ore like— like he was… it was disturbing.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Good. At least one of us can get some undisturbed sleep.” Unless… “Or were you having trouble too?”

“All things considered, it’s probably a good thing you woke us first,” Drift confirmed, burrowing into Ratchet’s warmth. Both of their plugs had come free in the struggle, and Drift touched Ratchet’s wrist in offer. Ratchet nodded, and Drift gently reconnected them both to the berth.

“Do  _ you  _ want to talk about it?” Ratchet asked, returning the offer.

“Oh, the usual,” Drift responded a little flippantly, belied by how he hung onto Ratchet desperately. “The usual. Everyone I care about is being tortured, murdered, and turned into monsters, and it’s all my fault, but Deadlock doesn’t even care…” He shivered. “I don’t actually want to talk about it.”

Ratchet hugged him tight. “Then don’t. Just remember it’s not real, and if you wind up accidentally waking me up, even with combat reflexes, I’m not going to get mad.”

“As long as neither of us needs to call Ambulon tonight, I’ll call it a win,” Drift promised sleepily. Still obviously exhausted, he was back in full recharge only a klik later.

It took Ratchet a little longer to join him, but eventually he did. From there it was only a matter of time before the nightmares found him again, but this time he recognized them for what they were. It didn’t make them any more pleasant, but it did take the sharp edge of fear out of them, and Ratchet was able to let his processor work its way through the quagmire without flailing around on the berth.

He was  _ not _ able to sleep through being flipped off of it. Or through the too-loud sound of a handgun being cocked to fire.

“Drift?” Ratchet sat up slowly, making sure both his hands were visible. He would really rather not get shot, thank you very much.

“Don’t—” he started to snarl, then his optics finished booting on and he saw what had happened. The handgun disappeared back into subspace, and he shook himself. “Still willing to recharge with my combat reflexes?” Drift reached down to help Ratchet up.

“I’m not full of holes, am I?” Ratchet held onto Drift’s hand once he was back on his feet. “I’ll stay, as long as I’m still welcome.”

“You are,” Drift sounded relieved. “Please.”

It wasn’t the last time Drift’s nightmares wound up waking them both. He didn’t throw Ratchet to the floor and point a gun at him again, but he did pin him down to the berth a couple of times, and once reached for his swords. The second time, he saw a knife that had already been tossed aside, evidence Drift had woken himself before disturbing Ratchet. Each time Drift asked if he really wanted to stay, and each time Ratchet insisted he did. Broken recharge might not be the best, but he wouldn’t be doing much better on his own — Drift’s field was one of the things he was using to ground himself against his own bad dreams — and it was clear that Drift didn’t really want to be left alone. His fingers curled tightly around the edges of Ratchet’s plating each time they settled back down, like he was afraid he was going to vanish. There was no way Ratchet was going to abandon him to face the dreams he refused to talk about by himself.

Neither of them were really fully rested when Drift groaned and shifted. “Gotta get up and start my shift.”

Ratchet grumbled, reluctantly letting go of Drift so he could get up. “Do you have to?”

“I already have ten messages in my queue.” Drift clung to Ratchet a moment longer, then started disentangling himself. “Rodimus is already up. He’s on the bridge right now… Time to get everything back to normal.”

A quick check of his own queue showed Ratchet that he had a couple of messages too — just requests for appointments when he had time, nothing urgent, but enough to remind him that  _ he  _ had a shift to get to as well. “Back to normal is good,” he acknowledged. “Headed in the right direction would be good too.”

“Yeah. Do you mind?” Drift made a gesture from himself to his usual meditation spot. “Everything I’ve got can wait a couple of breems while I try again.”

“Of course I don’t mind. It’s your room.” Unfortunately, Ratchet’s duties weren’t as patient as Drift’s. “They’ll be looking for me in the medbay soon, so I’ll clear out and let you concentrate.” He patted Drift’s shoulder, then let his hand slide over so his fingers could brush the vents on the side of his helm. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Drift responded automatically, while his field flickered in  _ surprise. _

The ship outside Drift’s door certainly was starting to feel more normal to Ratchet. Having a shift to settle his processor and process not being dead made the solidness of the walls, the floor, less of a miracle to Ratchet’s optics. They were just hallways.

People were wandering the halls again, too. Maybe they had been while Ratchet had been plodding along before, but if so, he hadn’t noticed. Mechs stopped to exchange greetings, express sympathy, or urge him to go relieve poor Ambulon before  _ all  _ his paint ended up on the medbay floor. Nice, normal things.

And sure enough, Ambulon was looking rather ragged and a bit worse for wear when Ratchet arrived. “You are overdue for a break,” he said, holding out his hand for the datapad Ambulon was working on. “Thanks for all your hard work.”

“Have any tips for getting that,” he nodded to the pile of Whirl-and-First Aid still on the cot, “into one of our rooms?” He handed the datapad over with flare of clear relief in his field. “Or else I might just collapse with them.” Again.

“Hmm.” Ratchet looked at them critically. “Think if I haul Whirl out of here by his rotor assembly, First Aid will follow on his own two feet?”

Something in Ambulon’s frame coughed in quickly stomped on amusement. “Even if he doesn’t, I can get First Aid to bed.”

“Had experience doing that in the past?” Ratchet smiled. “Come on then.” Contrary to his earlier statement, however, he didn’t actually grab Whirl by his rotors, or even at all. Instead, he simply rapped his knuckles on the mech’s canopy. “Hey. Time to wake up so you can go to bed.”

“Goodie,” Whirl groaned, untangling himself to stretch. “That was fun. Feels like we had a good cycle.”

“I’m not surprised  _ you  _ enjoyed it,” Ratchet huffed. Once it was clear Whirl wasn’t coming up shooting, Ambulon moved to the other side of the cot and started prodding First Aid to sit up, then stand, both without his optic band even coming on. “But you managed to come back intact enough that you don’t need to be taking up space here. Why don’t you help Ambulon carry ‘Firstie’,” he cringed at the nickname, “to his habsuite?”

“Hey, any cycle I can get Dippy to punch my lights out is a good one,” Whirl clacked his pincers and cackled softly. Long, gangly legs unfolded as he stood and stretched again. “What’s up with you though? You’re being all nice and stuff.”

“I’m not being nice,” Ratchet denied. “I’m being mean and horrible and tossing you out on your aft.”

The lenses in Whirl’s oversized optic shifted to create an “expression” that was somehow distinctly dubious. “Yeah… My aft’s got the scuffs to prove just how horrible you’re being right now.” But he left it alone, exchanged a few words with Ambulon, then scooped First Aid up in his gangly arms — not the easiest feat in the world, but Ratchet already knew Whirl’s frame was stronger than his gawky proportions made him look. “Come on, damsel.”

First Aid giggled sleepily, and Ambulon even smiled.

Ratchet definitely didn’t watch them leave with an affectionate smile of his own. He was  _ not _ starting to appreciate or care about  _ Whirl _ of all mechs! Not even if he was treating First Aid and Ambulon better than anyone would have expected from him. Not even if he’d helped Ultra Magnus and hadn’t taken the chance to shoot up his insides, or been more forgiving of Fortress Maximus than most of the crew who  _ hadn’t  _ gotten beaten up by him. And certainly not because of the realization Whirl had joined the  _ Lost Light _ for reasons that mirrored Ratchet’s own… 

He turned to take stock of the medbay. It looked like Red Alert had woken and checked himself out, and most of the others had been discharged, but Rung was still sitting on his berth, reading a datapad.

“How are you feeling?” Ratchet asked, stopping by his side. “I’m no expert, but I can say from experience that a shift of recharge helps. Even if that recharge is uneasy.”

“It does,” Rung said quietly, subspacing the datapad. “The mind is incredibly resilient and defrag is one of its most potent recovery methods, especially in the short term. Nightmares immediately following an incident like this are healthy.” Which Ratchet knew. It was when they lingered for centuries that they became a sign that something potentially wasn’t being processed, rather than a sign they were. Even so, they all probably had centuries of nightmares to offload now. “I was waiting to talk to you before I left.”

“I’ve got time now. Can’t promise I won’t get called away since I’m on duty, but for the moment I can talk.” Ratchet didn’t sit down, but settled into a listening stance. This wasn’t a conversation he was going to try to avoid.

Rung looked down and away, field coloring with shame. “I wanted to apologize to you. I used what I knew about you as your psychiatrist to influence you and I am deeply sorry for it. I understand if you would like someone else to do your evals. I can make a list of who’s stationed where and you can discuss your options with the captain… or with Ultra Magnus.”

“When did you — ah. Yes. Yes you did.” When he’d been refusing Rodimus’ order to tell Ore the truth, and manipulating Ratchet into doing the same. “I can understand why you might feel a need to apologize, and while I do appreciate it, I don’t see a need to change anything.” 

“Are you certain?” Rung looked up to meet Ratchet’s optics. “I committed a very serious breach of patient/doctor trust.”

“To remind me of something I shouldn’t have needed reminding of.” That’s what it had felt like in the moment, besides a call-out: a reminder. “Should you have found a better way to do it? Probably. But we were in the middle of a crisis. It’d be a little hypocritical of me to hold doing what you thought would be effective against you when I’ve done similar things in the past. Besides,” Ratchet said, not finding it in himself to be offended in the face of the self-directed shame he still felt for what he’d almost done, “you’re aware of what you did, and are taking responsibility for it.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Rung folding his hands on his lap. “Since you aren’t going to replace me as your primary psychiatrist, is there anything you’d like to talk about? Now, or later. I understand it’s a lot to process.”

“It is.” Too much to process after only a single shift of frequently interrupted recharge. “It’s also not the first time I’ve thought I was going to die, only to find my life going on as usual. I’ll let you know if my tried and true coping mechanisms can’t handle it, how’s that?”

“Drinking and overworking?” Rung asked archly.

Ratchet gave him his best deadpan stare. “In moderation, yes.”

“Very well.” Rung hopped down from the medical berth and gathered up his datapad. “You think I’m free to go? I’ve got a mental breakdown scheduled and I don’t want to put it off any longer than needed.”

“You should be fine.” He hadn’t been injured, just given a dose of sedation code; Ratchet checked his chart just to be sure, then nodded. “Feel free to proceed with that breakdown. Just remember you’re allowed to ask for help too, if you need it.”

Rung gave him a smile. “I’ll let you know if my tried and true coping mechanisms can’t handle it.”

“Good.” For once, it was easy for Ratchet to smile in return. “Thank you.”

Rung nodded, then left the medbay. Ratchet surveyed the remaining patients. Cyclonus was still recharging. Chromedome was hooked up to a monitor to keep an optic on his processor functions after the traumatic attempt to read the titan’s memories; Rewind was asleep curled up against his side. 

Ratchet went over to check them. Finding no signs of any impending complications, he discharged Chromedome, sending the two of them to their quarters to finish recovering in private. He let Cyclonus rest, though he added a note to his chart that he could be discharged as well as soon as he woke. Then he started dealing with those appointment requests in his inbox.

The rest of his shift was refreshingly normal. Everyone was getting back into their routines, and for a lot of mechs that meant back into their routines of various minor injuries as well.

Unfortunately, it didn’t mean a return to Drift finding excuses to stop by and see Ratchet.

It was only to be expected, Ratchet told himself after the fourth time he’d looked up at a sound, thinking it might be Drift, only to have it be someone else. Helping each other with their nightmares didn’t change the fact that they were still “fighting”, if their misunderstanding and lack of communication could be called a fight. After telling Drift he wasn’t ready to talk last night, why would Drift approach him first? 

“Rodimus had better not pull another nearly fatal disaster out of nowhere next time I go to talk to him,” Ratchet grumbled as he cleaned up after his last patient. Not that the Galactic Council or the titan were things he could be held responsible for, but still. The timing had been incredibly inconvenient, and Ratchet didn’t want to have to chase the captain down a  _ third  _ time if something else went wrong.

When Ambulon came in to take over and resume his normal shift joors, he looked much less tired and was even freshly painted, red and white gleaming new and whole without a hint of peeling. He looked around at the empty medbay and nodded in greeting. Ratchet saw his hand twitch toward where he usually started picking at his paint, then consciously pull away.

“Nothing of note to pass on,” Ratchet said, gesturing at the unoccupied berths. “You almost had Cyclonus still here, but he left a couple breems ago.” 

“He’s thrilled, I’m sure,” Ambulon drawled back. “The off-liners back to normal?”

“Like they never moved at all.” If Ratchet hadn’t seen them do it, he would never have believed it now. All their readings confirmed their status as all but dead, fully dependent on life support. “I left the scanner you repurposed alone so you could untangle what you did to it.”

“Goodie,” Ambulong said flatly, clearly enthused. “I’ll get right on that.”

“It was clever work under pressure,” Ratchet gave him, “but it was a rush job, and as it is, we can’t use it for anything else.” It wasn’t their only scanner, so it wasn’t a huge problem, but it did need to be fixed. “It’s okay if you need more than one shift. Just make sure it’s functional by the end of the decacycle.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

Satisfied, Ratchet set off, determined to talk to Rodimus. The shift change for the bridge officers hadn’t happened yet, but it would be soon, and that gave him enough time to get there and hover unobtrusively (okay, blatantly obtrusively) by the door where there was no way the captain could miss him. 

“Ratchet?” Drift sounded surprised to see him there, as he himself came down the hall to start his own shift on the bridge.

“Needed a word with Rodimus,” Ratchet said by way of explanation. “I hope your shift was as relatively uneventful as mine?”

“Red Alert wants to exorcise the ship,” Drift responded slowly. “Between the sparkeater and Ore, he’s convinced we’re flying in a nest of evil spirits. Once is enemy action and twice is a conspiracy to him.”

Drift wasn’t mentioning the third reason for the exorcism, Ratchet noticed. “If there is something evil on this ship,” he said carefully, “then it should be dealt with, though I can’t see how an exorcism will do much good. The sparkeater and Ore aren’t even here anymore.” And a useless ritual wouldn’t make any kind of difference to Overlord.

One of Drift’s optics widened, but he didn’t take the bait to start arguing over spiritual scrap. “I have to get to the bridge. I’ll send Roddy out to see you.” With a nod, he skirted past Ratchet to the door.

“Thanks,” Ratchet said to his back, wondering if Drift would write his skepticism off as being about exorcisms in general, or if he might not start putting two and two together. He knew Ratchet had been with Rung and Red Alert in the engine room, after all, and even if he didn’t know what Red Alert knew for  _ sure _ , he was smart enough to consider the possibilities. All the more reason to make sure he had things out with Rodimus now.

A breem later, Rodimus poked his head out. “Hey Ratch. What do you need? This an office talk or an on-my-way-to-the-bar talk?”

“Office talk,” Ratchet said firmly. “Preferably without any interruptions this time.”

“Primus, you sound like Ultra Magnus,” the captain whined as he led the way. He seemed to be in a good mood, walking along with a bounce in his step. “I cannot be held responsible for what happened on Theophany. I’ll do better.”

“I’m not blaming you for what happened there.” No, he was going to be blaming him for something that had happened much earlier. But it couldn’t hurt to add, “I think you wound up doing a very good thing.”

Rodimus’ steps faltered a bit, then he looked back at Ratchet and preened. “Nice to hear someone besides Drift actually acknowledge how awesome I am.”

“You did a good thing. One time. That’s all I’m saying.” Ratchet rolled his optics. Of course he’d taken the compliment all out of proportion. “But it did save us all, and set the titan free. It was a very selfless thing to do.” 

“It was, wasn’t it?” Rodimus didn’t seem at all bothered by Ratchet’s caveats. They reached the door to his office and it slid open at the captain’s ping and the lights came on. Unsurprisingly, it looked the same as before the emergency, right down to the piles of datapads waiting to be read. Rodimus slid into the seat behind the desk and invited Ratchet to take the guest chair. Ratchet saw him look a his doodle longingly, but he almost pointedly folded his hands in front of him on the desk instead of pulling out the laser pen. “What can I do for you, Ratchet?”

Ratchet chose to remain standing. No beating around the bush this time. “You can start,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “by explaining what the frag Overlord is doing on board the  _ Lost Light.” _

Rodimus’ good mood visibly came to a screeching halt.  _ “What?” _ he squeaked. “I mean. I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ratchet.”

“Nice try, but you’re not fooling me — I  _ know  _ he’s here, Rodimus,” Ratchet said, glaring down at him with accusation, “and as CMO, I should have known about a danger like that before we even took off. So why didn’t I?”

Rodimus’ optics brightened with panic.  _ “No one’s _ supposed to know,” he blurted out.

“Besides you and Drift?” Ratchet guessed shrewdly.

“Um…” A moment later, there was a sharp rap on the door and Rodimus jumped up. “I need to get that!”

“You really don’t,” Ratchet growled. “If you try to leave this office, I will follow you and continue this discussion in the hall where everyone can hear it.”

“But!” Rodimus’ optics darted to the door, right as it slid open of its own accord to admit Drift. 

“Somehow I fail to be surprised,” he said, closing it behind himself to lean on it with a sigh. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be either.” Ratchet frowned. He’d wanted to have at least some of this discussion without Drift present, but Rodimus must have pinged him the nanoklik he said Overlord’s name. “So. Which one of you is going to give me the answer?”

Rodimus and Drift held each others’ optics for a klik, silently debating as only very good friends could, and Rodimus was the one to look away first with a sigh. “It was Prowl’s idea,” he said with resignation. “And yeah. No one was supposed to know, except me and Drift.”

“Drift and I,” Drift murmured, and smiled sunnily at Rodimus’ glare.

“Now who sounds like Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet muttered, unfolding his arms so he could scrub a hand over his face. “Prowl’s idea, huh? Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me either. What does,” he said, looking up at the two co-conspirators, “is that either of you went along with it! Especially you,” he pointed at Drift. “This is exactly the sort of idiotic thing I’ve seen you talk him,” his finger moved to point at Rodimus,  _ “out  _ of doing!”

“Hey! Don’t yell at him!” Rodimus slammed his hands on his desk. “I’m perfectly capable of doing my own idiotic things! It’s  _ not _ Drift’s fault.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m aware of that. But even if it’s not his fault, he still went along with it — and I still haven’t heard a reason why from either of you.” With Prowl involved, Ratchet suspected Overlord’s presence was part of some complicated, long-term scheme. The mech just did not know how to leave things alone, even when there was no reason to meddle with them. “Why did Prowl want Overlord on the ship, and why did you let him put him here? I’m pretty sure,” he said derisively, “I can guess why I was left out of the loop.”

“I don’t know why he didn’t want you to know,” Drift tried reassuring him. “I can guess,” he continued when Ratchet snorted again, “but I don’t  _ know.” _

“He wants us to convince Chromedome to work on him,” Rodimus picked up the thread, gaining confidence and shedding his earlier panic now that Drift was there and opening up to Ratchet’s questions. “Find out how to make Phase Sixers. You know, just in case.”

Ratchet didn’t bother asking in case  _ what.  _ With Prowl, “just in case” was justification enough. “Does that mean Chromedome knows he’s here too, then?”

“Not yet,” Drift answered. “I haven’t seen an opportunity to tell him.”

“Because he’s smart enough not to fall in with something this stupid, in other words. Do you have any idea,” Ratchet suppressed a shudder, “just how dangerous having someone like Overlord on this ship is? It’s  _ incredibly  _ dangerous,” he said before either of them could answer. “I don’t care what Prowl thinks we stand to gain, which is  _ exactly _ why he didn’t want you telling me.”

“It’s fine, Ratch,” Rodimus’ assurance was a little shaky. “He’s trussed up and the cell does some sort of… thing… that keeps him from moving a lot.”

“More reliably,” Drift added dryly, “he’s under the impression that Megatron’s dead, and as long as that remains the case, he’s got no reason to struggle.”

“As long as that remains the case. Fantastic. And if something happens? Something changes? Don’t bother trying to tell me how unlikely that is,” Ratchet snapped, not interested in hearing Prowl’s percentages parroted at him now.  _ “If he gets free,  _ we will all be very dead, very quickly. Have you ever seen a Phase Sixer in action? I have, and I very nearly wasn’t here to tell you that fact as a result.” 

Drift’s optics flickered and Ratchet saw his hand twitch before he suppressed the impulse to reach out. “I have, and you’re right.”

“Well he’s here now,” Rodimus snapped, bristling. “There aren’t exactly any convenient prisons we can offload him onto, and if we couldn’t turn the ship around when Fort Max was demanding we return to Cybertron, we still can’t now. We need to go through with the plan. It’s a  _ plan. _ It might not be my plan but it’s probably better for that.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Ratchet sighed, forcing himself not to let his voice keep rising. “It’s  _ Prowl’s  _ plan, and that doesn’t reassure me at all.” Prowl was good — frighteningly so — but he also wasn’t here, wasn’t being kept abreast of how the situation was changing, and, quite frankly, probably hadn’t prioritized their  _ personal  _ well-being when he’d set things in motion. Rodimus was right about one thing though; like it or not, Overlord was on the ship now, and they had to deal with that reality. “The whole thing hinges on Chromedome, and he hasn’t even been read in yet. Nor should he be — you know he’s trying to stop using those needles,” Ratchet pointed out, aware he’d already failed twice in that regard since takeoff. Maybe Red Alert was right about there being a conspiracy, he thought a bit hysterically. The sparkeater, the metrotitan, and now Overlord, all involving mnemosurgery. “It’s not what he wants and it’s not healthy for him, and that’s before you start weighing in the ethics and the risks to, let me re-emphasize,  _ everyone on board.” _

Rodimus bristled again, engine growling irritably. 

“I think that’s enough,” Drift said, quietly stepping forward and holding his hand out to Rodimus, who gave it a disdainful look. Drift just cocked one optic ridge and Rodimus deflated. “We don’t need to fight about this.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to fight about this,” Ratchet said, not quite pleading but still quiet. He might not be happy about the whole situation, but yelling at Rodimus and Drift wouldn’t accomplish anything. He  _ knew  _ that; if they would just cooperate… “Whatever happens though, going forward, I expect to be a part of it.”

“We’ll see,” Drift said as Rodimus’ armor fluffed up again in offense. “In the meantime, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet, you’re dismissed.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” The abrupt order, coupled with the blatant reminder of his rank (and therefore, his obligation to obey said order) was enough to make Ratchet’s temper flare back up. “I’m _what?”_

“Go away,” Drift repeated less formally, holding Rodimus’ gaze with his own as the captain’s own temper flared as well. 

“No Drift. If Ratch wants to fight about this now, let’s do it,” Rodimus hissed. “You don’t have to protect him.”

“Roddy…”

“Just because he’s your  _ boyfriend.” _

“The fact that he’s  _ right _ has nothing to do with whether or not we’re dating,” Drift snapped back. “And he doesn’t need to be here for this. Ratchet. Dismissed.”

Ratchet blinked, processing what Drift had said. He thought he was right? So then why… Oh. “Yes, sir,” he said, frustration still clear in his voice beneath the acquiescence. This was far from over, but he could be done for now. With a curt, “Captain,” Ratchet turned on his heel and stomped out of the office. Let Rodimus explode for a bit behind closed doors; Ratchet would just take himself off to get plastered. 

He was pretty sure he didn’t imagine the sound of a datapad hitting the door behind him as it swished closed.

The rest of the shift, fortunately, quickly became a blur. His bad mood must have communicated itself, because he hadn’t even said anything before Swerve was sliding the strongest of his regular drinks in his direction — and kept them coming. Since that was exactly what Ratchet would have asked for anyway, he simply nodded his thanks to each one and proceeded to continue downing them until he could no longer distinguish who else was in the bar. 

He expected — if he’d expected anything when he started — to wake up slumped over the bar counter, or maybe slumped on the ground next to his stool, with a raging headache and a nasty lingering overcharge. 

Well, he had the headache and the lingering discomfort of his frame having been forced to deal with all the extra energy. So that was good, he guessed. But when he blearily managed to get his optics to reboot and focus, instead of Swerve’s bar, he saw the unadorned ceiling of his own habsuite.

How had he gotten here?

His memories refused to come into focus as well as his sight, which was still obscured by the occasional pop of static. Groaning, Ratchet forced himself through the slow process of getting vertical. There were things that could help with the worst of the aftereffects in the medbay, but he had to go and get them for them to work. Poor planning, that. Next time he was going to make sure he had some in his room so he wouldn’t have to move so far.

Of course, the medbay wasn’t exactly very far away, but to Ratchet it felt like crossing the entire ship. He shuffled along the edge of the hall, leaning on the wall to keep himself from falling. He’d certainly done a good job rendering himself unconscious, if his usual stagger back to his habsuite was all he could accomplish after theoretically sleeping it off.

The medbay lights were  _ far _ too bright, and no sooner had the door swished open than First Aid was at his side, clucking worriedly. “Come on, let’s get you on a berth. Looks like you overdid it  _ just _ a little, doesn’t it.”

“You know what? I’m not even going to argue with that.” Not when arguing took effort, and it was effort enough to make it those few steps without the support of the ship. First Aid encouraged him to lean on him, and Ratchet did, but he was moving too, and therefore not quite as solid. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had  _ that  _ much all at once.”

“Here.” First Aid deposited him on a berth. “Lay down. I’ll get you a dose of hangover code.” Which was basically the same as a FIM chip, but in a single dose instead of as an ongoing effect. The patient one berth over, hidden under a thermal tarp, huffed something that could have been either a sigh of exasperation or a laugh as First Aid fussed for a moment, making sure all Ratchet’s limbs were on the berth, before going to retrieve the promised remedy.

Deciding he didn’t need them on now that he wasn’t trying to move, Ratchet let his optics darken. The harsh medical lighting faded to black, and he sighed with relief. Much better.

He — obviously — didn’t see First Aid return, but he felt the other medic’s fingers touch the cover on his topmost port gently. “May I?”

“Yes,” Ratchet replied, immediately sliding it open. “Please.”

Quickly and professionally, First Aid inserted the datastick and (after a completely automated check from his antiviral software) Ratchet felt the code run. Suddenly all of the lingering overcharge was flushed from his system and a dose of painkiller erased the aches from his frame and dulled the headache to a manageable throb (unlike the version they usually gave out to drunken idiots, which only flushed the charge and dulled the headache a  _ little). _ He still felt dizzy though, so he stayed laying down on the medberth, waiting for that final symptom to pass. Ratchet sighed again. “Thank you. I’d say remind me not to do something like this again, but I can admit it probably wouldn’t do any good.” 

“You should rest a little bit before trying to get up for your shift,” First Aid replied, spreading a thermal tarp over him as well.

“Not just should. I think resting a little bit is a necessity at this point if I’m going to be able to do my shift,” Ratchet half-laughed, half-groaned. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“I can stay for a few more breems,” First Aid said gently. “Just some bumps and dents. Apparently a couple of mechs were racing through the lower levels.” The patient in the next berth made a protesting cough with his high performance engine. “Well you were,” First Aid scolded gently. “And then you waited to come in to see us.”

A discontented growl that petered off just before it became threatening was his only answer.

“Crashed yourself, did you?” Ratchet asked, curious.

There was a long pause while the mech lay there in silence, refusing to admit to anything. Then, “No,” Drift finally said. “Just clipped the wall.”

“…Oh.” Looked like they’d all wound up handling things well then. If Drift had been one of a couple of mechs racing around the ship, the other had to have been Rodimus. Ratchet turned his head toward Drift, rebooting his optics. “Are you alright?”

With a sigh, Drift sat up — much more easily than Ratchet was capable of right now — and ceased his pretense of being just a piece of the scenery. “Yeah. I actually went back to the bridge to relieve Ultra Magnus for the rest of my shift after we were done. Would have done Ultra Magnus’ as well, except  _ someone _ blabbed to Ambulon that I’d gotten hurt too. First Aid’s just taking lessons from you on how to be a fusspot.”

“I didn’t  _ need _ lessons on how to be a fusspot,” First Aid insisted, false-primly. 

“Granted, but I’m fine.” Drift twisted to show off his leg, where presumably he’d clipped the wall. “You even redid the paint.”

Ratchet looked at it. It did appear to be okay. “I’m not a fusspot.”

“Of course not,” First Aid said blandly. “I’m just… going over there for a bit.”

Drift’s optics followed the junior medic’s retreat. “Subtle!” he called, then flopped back on the berth. “He’s meddling.”

“He does that, yes.” Though whatever he thought he was meddling in this time, he was misreading the situation. “I found out just before the hearing concluded,” Ratchet said quietly, grateful that now he could at least clear up that misunderstanding between himself and Drift. “When you came to see me afterward, I was still trying to process it.”

“…Oh.”

“I’m  _ still  _ trying to process it,” Ratchet continued, “but I meant what I said about not wanting to fight about it. There was no way I could ignore it, but I was trying to avoid escalating things unnecessarily.”

“And I was entirely unhelpful at that,” Drift acknowledged. “I’m sorry for running out. You were upset, upset at me, and I couldn’t imagine…” he trailed off. Ratchet knew what Drift had thought. “I’m sorry.”

“You running off the way you did, I understood.” He’d been annoyed by it, but he’d understood it. “I forgive you for that.”

Drift looked uncertain. “Rodimus finally agreed it was best to leave Chromedome out of things for now, and to keep you in the loop on any decisions that were made,” he offered, like he was checking if that was what Ratchet was still mad about. “He wouldn’t have calmed down while you were still there, though I probably should have been nicer about getting you to leave.”

“As worked up as we were getting, blunt was probably better than nice,” Ratchet said. He could more easily accept now, looking back, that sending him away had been necessary. “I’m glad to hear that was your decision.” There was more he wanted to say, other questions he wanted to ask, but now wasn’t exactly the best time or place. “Thank you.”

“I love Rodimus to pieces, but when he feels challenged it makes him want to take action and do something immediately, even when waiting is the right thing to do.” Drift made an aborted attempt to reach out, then pulled his hand back to his lap. “I can’t say I don’t understand. I was the same way.”

“I suppose I’ll have to hope he learns from you then,” Ratchet said. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know what the right answer is, but I know going ahead with it is wrong.”

Drift didn’t answer that.

Luckily, First Aid chose that moment to stop pretending he was absorbed in his task that just happened to be on the other side of the medbay and came back over, ostensibly to check Drift’s chart. “So. Have you two made up yet?” he asked brightly. “If not, I can lock you in a closet. Whirl will help.”

Drift opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. “He probably would.”

“We do not need you, or Whirl, or you  _ and  _ Whirl, locking us in any closets,” Ratchet huffed, turning to glare at First Aid. “Don’t you dare go giving him any ideas.”

“That depends entirely on whether or not I need my backup plan,” the other medic said serenely. “So have you two made up yet?”

“Yes. Yes we have.” Ratchet reached out and took Drift’s hand. “Right?”

_ Happiness/relief _ buzzed against his palm before Drift got his field back under control; his optics remained locked on their entwined fingers. “Yeah.”

First Aid smiled beatifically (one of these days, Ratchet was going to figure out how he did that without a mouth!) and finally looked down at Drift’s chart. “In that case, you’re free to go whenever you feel ready.” He made the appropriate mark on the monitor. “But I can stay here for a couple more joors.”

“Subtle,” Ratchet deadpanned. “Isn’t there something you could be doing? In ISO, perhaps?”

“No need to get huffy when I’m offering to take half your shift,” First Aid said cheerfully, completely unbothered. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He almost fluttered away, taking Ratchet’s suggestion to find something to do in ISO.

“You don’t have to stay,” Ratchet told Drift, but didn’t let go of his hand. “I’d like it if we really did make up though.”

“We could go to your hab to make up,” Drift offered with a tentative leer.

Ratchet laughed. “You’d have to help me stand up first, though I can probably walk on my own at this point.” 

Without releasing his grip, Drift slithered off the berth and used their clasped hands to help Ratchet get vertical. Ratchet stumbled, and Drift was right there, catching him. “Okay, maybe I’m still a little shaky,” Ratchet admitted. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Self repair’s probably still working on a few fuses. I can’t even remember leaving the bar.”

“Hound and Sunstreaker said you were unconscious,” Drift offered while he made sure Ratchet was balanced.

“Is that how I got back to my berth? They carried me?” Well, that was embarrassing. “I should probably thank them, then.”

“They’d appreciate that, I’m sure.” 

The short walk back to his habsuite went quickly with Drift’s help. Ratchet pinged the door to close once they were inside, then gently pressed his forehead to Drift’s. “I hope you won’t hold it against me that I didn’t say something right away.”

“Huh?” Drift said intelligently. 

“I don’t want you to think I’m suddenly going to hate you and decide we’re through without talking about it first,” Ratchet clarified. “Even if I  _ do  _ find something objectionable in that datapad one of these cycles.”

Drift’s optics cycled off then back on as he visibly switched thought threads.  _ “When _ you find something objectionable.”

“Okay, yes. When. But that’s my point — we don’t always see things the same way, and I’d rather talk about those differences and try to understand them before assuming they’re insurmountable.”

Drift held Ratchet where they were for a klik longer, then drew back with a sigh, resting against the door. “I’ll try. It’s hard to remember your determination to be open-minded. If more people had  _ listened _ four million vorns ago, things might have gone differently. As it is… It’s still potentially treason for me to have even kept everything I did, and sedition for me to have given it to you.”

“I know. I had to think carefully before asking to see more for the same reasons.” It would be easier for Ratchet to spin his request as a means of rooting out lingering Decepticon sympathies than it would be for Drift to defend having them, but that didn’t mean there was no risk to him for having done it. “Caution’s what’s kept us alive for so long. I don’t expect that to suddenly disappear from anyone. But that’s why I want to remind you — and myself — that we have other options now. Being open-minded is still something of a work in progress for me, but the way I see it, it’s an effort worth making. Otherwise, the war will never  _ really _ be over.” Ratchet turned away, embarrassed at how that had come out. He certainly hadn’t meant to get preachy!

Drift caught his arm and pulled him back. “That’s really beautiful.  _ You’re _ beautiful.”

“Bah. I am not,” Ratchet protested, but it was a token at best. “I’m a grumpy old has-been with a hangover,” he said with a wry grin.

“Should lay down then,” Drift suggested practically, with a feather-light push. “Are you even up for ‘making up’?”

“I’m up for finding out,” Ratchet said, pleased that he hadn’t staggered or fallen. Still using Drift to balance himself, he took a deliberate step back toward the berth. “What about you?”

“Fine.  _ You’re _ doing the part that could force a reboot.”

“A reboot would probably help me at this point, you know.”

Drift laughed and helped Ratchet sit on the berth. He leaned over to place his swords on the ground, where they wouldn’t be in the way. “Convenient…” He bunted one boxy shoulder. “How do you want me?”

“On top of me.” Ratchet pulled Drift after him as he leaned back, struggling for a moment to swing his legs fully up onto the berth. Drift helped him, then crawled up to hold him in place. “There — now I won’t fall on the floor.”

“I wouldn’t have let you fall on the floor anyway,” Drift purred. He sat up, tilting his head as though trying to decide where to start. Then he ran his hands over Ratchet’s chest, admiring the shine on his windshield, before starting to seek out other touchy spots. Ratchet hissed in surprise and then in pleasure when those fingers found their way to a particularly sensitive seam on his side with hardly any hesitation.

“You’re getting good at that,” Ratchet said, trailing his own fingers over Drift’s forearms. He didn’t bother seeking out anything sensitive, just petting for the pleasure of feeling Drift’s armor under his fingers.

Drift smiled, flashing his fangs, then leaned down to go over the same spot again, this time nibbling along the seam. His fangs couldn’t dip into the gap to caress the same way as his fingers, but they did  _ prick, prick _ along the edges of the armor in a way that was interesting.

It was also a very  _ Drift  _ thing to do. Ratchet smiled at the sensation, though his reaction had more to do with the association than anything else. Drift nibbled when he was happy and comfortable, and it felt nice to know he was responsible for that.

“Mmmm…” Drift hummed. “You’re good…” He licked away the sensation of his fangs and moved lower, working his way along the other sensitive spots on Ratchet’s side.

“I’m good?” More like Drift was, Ratchet thought, enjoying the slow build as Drift continued to light up his haptic sensory network. His fingers were still more effective than his fangs, but the way using both drew out the attention given to each spot was a nice plus. 

“You are,” Drift murmured back. Ratchet felt fingers trail briefly over his thighs, then back over his pelvic armor. “I like how you taste.” He licked the circular bit of armor on Ratchet’s abdomen.

Ratchet chuckled. “Yes, I’d noticed that, even if it took some getting used to. And not because I don’t like it,” he was quick to add. “It’s just that you aren’t able to reach as many sensitive places with your teeth. Those fangs can’t get into gaps or stroke over cables the way your fingers do.”

In response, Drift’s fingers wiggled into some of the gaps around Ratchet’s pelvis, even as he teased his fangs over that circle again.

“Of course, when you combine them like that,” Ratchet gasped, unable to avoid trying to arch up into Drift’s touch, “it works pretty damn well!” 

Ratchet expected him to move on, find some more places, but Drift seemed content to sit right there and  _ tease. _ When Ratchet started to acclimatize to one sensation, he switched, from fangs to fingers, from fingers to the wet heat of his tongue, from that to a light wandering touch that had Ratchet writhing, chasing the almost phantom sensation…

“Drift!” Ratchet’s helm fell back, the sensations somehow feeling even better when he couldn’t see what Drift was doing, couldn’t guess what he might do next. 

“Yes, Ratchet?” Drift asked smugly, stroking firmly over the sensitized plating.

“That… I think that counts as a good spot,” Ratchet managed to gasp out. He definitely had a charge building now, the excess electricity not quite a physical pressure but very much  _ there,  _ collecting in his cables and beneath his plating. “But it’s not going to be enough.”

“So impatient,” Drift purred. But he didn’t keep prolonging the torture. He switched focus to Ratchet’s wrist, stroking and nibbling at the sparks that were probably visible until the cover popped open of its own accord and started unspooling one of the twitching cords within.

Those cords were never under completely conscious control, but right now Ratchet didn’t even try to direct them. He just let the feel of Drift’s fingers running over the myomer fibers and metal prongs fill his processor. “I wasn’t complaining,” he said through the haze of pleasurable input. “Just stating a fact. Take all the time you want.”

Two or three cords came out with the one Drift wanted, eagerly twitching in the air. With a pleased hum that blew warm air over them — making them twitch  _ more, _ the little blighters! — he licked one, running his tongue over the sensitive wires. Was the electricity strong enough for him to taste? To feel tingling against his lips as he— “Ah!” Ratchet’s fans hitched as Drift nipped one of the cords, compressing it momentarily and disrupting the flow of data along the wires within. Licking it soothed the bite and both felt delightfully  _ warm/wet, _ and made the suddenly rushing data corrupt into micro copies that pinged back along the cords to Ratchet’s neural network as sparks of charge. Little fangs of pleasure sank into his processor to match the fangs on his frame.

Yessss… 

Drift chuckled. “It sounds like you enjoyed that. Want me to do it again?”

Had he said that out loud? “Yes,” Ratchet said, consciously this time. “Was good.”

Drift toyed with the cords, as though carefully examining them to select his next victim… Ratchet felt a sharp  _ nip! _ followed quickly by the onslaught of copied data as he licked away the sting. The sensation was similar to having the cords pinched gently, but better, because of the added heat and intimacy. 

Still lost in the pleasant assault of  **_there’s_ ** _ something fangs are better at, _ Ratchet didn’t notice Drift had plugged one of his cords into the port at the top of his spine, or their firewalls dropping in recognition, until he realized he was actually feeling Drift’s smugness on top of hearing his chuckle.

_ I’m glad you approve of them. _

Ratchet answered with a somewhat disorganized affirmative, not bothering to construct proper sentences even over the connection. There were better things to focus on, like the way Drift had started to manipulate and layer the sensory data pouring into his processor.

It was hard to tell which sensations were Drift’s hands, and which were phantoms pulled up and run as scripts to clogged Ratchet’s bandwidth with pleasure. Was Drift nipping again at the cords not plugged into him, or was he playing with Ratchet’s perceptions? Were his fingers under his bumper, or teasing his tires? Was— 

_ Lii~iick! _

_ That _ was real. Automatically Ratchet turned his head, angling his chevron so Drift could lick along the other side. He wondered, he wanted, he  _ hoped— yes!  _ There was the bright burst of data, heat and pressure and the tiniest measure of pain as one fang scraped along the tip.

Ratchet found himself writhing almost uncontrollably, pushing whatever bit of his frame itched for the attention up off the berth for Drift to lick with an indulgent chuckle. He chased those bright spots of  _ warm/wet/touch! _ Gave them the highest priority in his input queue, as his processor drowned in the accumulated backlog of generated pleasure.

Somewhere, something reached the point where it was just too much. The electricity and data overwhelmed him and his systems, rather than trying to deal with it all anymore, tripped over into an overload-induced reset. There was no more differentiating individual input in that state; only a formless sense of  _ bliss. _

His hungover systems took their sweet time actually rebooting. Smell, for some reason, was the first sense to finish coming online. He took a deep breath of the scented smoke released by a freshly lit stick of Drift’s incense.

Strange, how quickly that scent had gone from an obnoxious reminder of Drift’s religious beliefs to a soothing reassurance that all was well.

Relaxed, safe, and comfortable, Ratchet let each of his systems come back online slowly. There was no need to rush; he could savor the soft sounds of Drift moving around as his hearing returned, the gentle pressure and warmth of his field once he was able to parse EM again, and he smiled when Drift’s face gradually came into focus. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Ratchet held out a hand. “Come here?”

Without hesitation, Drift crawled up onto the berth and let Ratchet wrap him in his arms. “Pet my finials?”

No hardship there. Ratchet obliged, stroking along both the finials and the vents on the sides of Drift’s face. This… “I’m glad we didn’t lose this.”

“So am I,” Drift murmured, collapsing strutlessly against Ratchet. His engine purred softly.

Unwilling to risk bringing an end to the moment any sooner than he had to, Ratchet didn’t say another word. They stayed there, together in each other’s arms, until it was time for him to take over what was left of his shift.

First Aid gave him a knowing wink on his way out the door.

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	10. Chapter 10

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When Drift had said Red Alert still wanted to do an exorcism for the ship, Ratchet hadn’t thought they were going to actually let him go through with it. Playing into his delusions wouldn’t help his paranoia (even if Ratchet was perfectly content to let him think Overlord was some kind of paranormal abomination and not, well,  _ Overlord) _ , and Ratchet said as much to Drift when he saw the preparations.

“There’s nothing  _ to  _ exorcise, nevermind the fact that  _ exorcisms don’t do anything,”  _ he huffed, picking up one of the charms Drift was working on to glare at it like it had personally offended him. It might as well have. “All these are going to do is clutter up the hallways.”

“Please don’t squish it,” Drift admonished mildly. “They feel stronger than they are. The folds give the foil structure, but it’s still just foil. And they’re  _ supposed _ to clutter up the hallways, for exactly one decacycle.”

Ratchet stared at the thing a moment longer, then set it back down (carefully; of course he wasn’t going to squish it, even if it was stupid). “Bad enough you’re letting him do it, but getting everyone involved like this…” He looked around the room. Drift had drafted several members of the crew to help him make the charms, and was using Swerve’s as a sort of command center for the proceedings. Rewind was recording Cyclonus demonstrating how to fold the foil for Tailgate and Skids, while Sunstreaker sat alone at another table with several perfectly folded segments and more than a few half-chewed balls of foil, courtesy of Bob. Swerve himself seemed happy, providing midgrade drinks and chattering to everyone present. And they weren’t the only ones — Ratchet had just come from the medbay, where First Aid had set up a crafting station for himself and their current patients, and apparently Rung was down in the brig folding charms with Fort Max while he was on duty there. “How does this help Red Alert?”

“By empowering him to confront his fears in a psychologically constructive way. Rung’s words, not mine,” Drift tacked on with a smile when Ratchet scoffed. “And  _ I _ didn’t get everyone involved in this. You can blame Ultra Magnus for that.” Carefully, he fit the pieces of foil together in a way that looked very precarious and finicky. So far Drift and Cyclonus were the only ones who were able to take the piles of folded foil units everyone was making and construct them into the finished foil models. Drift had said they only fit together one way, but the simplicity didn’t make the process easy.

“Ultra Magnus is encouraging this nonsense? I would have expected Rodimus’ stamp of approval all over his.” 

“Rodimus was initially skeptical,” Drift said, pausing to fit one stubborn piece into place, tucking two ends of the unit into pockets on two adjacent ones, then taking the flap of a third and inserting it into a pocket on the new piece. “It’s a lot of work, and he didn’t see the point. But then Ultra Magnus told him it could be a  _ team building exercise…” _ Drift chuckled. “Since good captains encourage cohesion in their crew, Rodimus made participation mandatory. Get folding, Grumpy.”

“I’m not folding any foil trinkets.” Ratchet folded his arms, pointedly taking his hands away from the supplies. “Not everyone on the ship is a Spectralist. Doesn’t that interfere with the finished product somehow?” he asked sarcastically.

“Nope,” Drift popped the “P” obnoxiously. He placed one of the tiny battery powered LEDs inside the charm, then moved on to fussing the next piece into place. “There’s a variation of this ritual in most of the older religions,” hence Cyclonus’ knowledge of how to make the foil sparks. “Originally, vornly cleansings would be undertaken by entire communities. Everyone contributes their energy to the talismans, just by helping. The prayers are the only part that need to be undertaken by an ordained religious figure — a sybil or rishi, in Spectralism.”

“Fine,” Ratchet said, savoring the look of surprise on Drift’s face before he continued. “Put me down as a conscientious objector. Forcing me to participate would be a violation of my lack of religious principles.”

“Lodge a formal complaint with Ultra Magnus,” Drift said, contemplating the last piece of the spiky globe he was assembling. Ratchet could sort of see how it was supposed to fit together, but couldn’t imagine how Drift was going to maneuver it in place without pulling the whole thing apart. “He can tell you which sections of the Autobot Code that falls under.”

“Oh! I can tell you that!” Tailgate piped up, nearly crushing the foil segment in his hand in his excitement. “I had to study the Code a  _ lot  _ before I could get this,” he thrust his chest, and the gleaming new Autobot symbol on it, out proudly, “so I know what sections have to do with observing religious rites. First there’s—”

“I don’t think he’s really going to file a formal complaint,” Cyclonus interrupted with rather astute insight. “Pay attention to what you’re doing. You need to start that piece over.”

“Are you going to show us how to construct the finished pieces?” Skids asked eagerly. “I can’t quite see how Drift’s doing it from here.”

“Yes, once all three of us,” Cyclonus pushed a small stack of flat foils closer to Tailgate, “has made ten units, then I can make one model, and you can start making your own.”

“All right.” Skids sounded so excited that Ratchet scoffed again.

Just then, Smokescreen came into the room with a large tub. Having proved earlier that the only thing he could do with a scrap of foil was calculate betting odds on it, he’d assigned himself to fetching the charm pieces from every corner of the ship. He collected the pieces from Sunstreaker then came over to Drift. “Special delivery from the medbay, command level, and the firing range and gym.”

“Thank you,” Drift responded as Smokescreen dumped the foil units out on the table. “Next delivery goes to Cyclonus and Skids.”

“Gotcha. Primus bless,” he tacked on with a grin in Ratchet’s direction.

“Primus bless,” Drift said more seriously.

Smokescreen twirled the bucket and sauntered over to Swerve, probably hoping to con the bartender out of a free drink before he resumed his “duties”.

“How many of these are you making, anyway?” Ratchet asked, surprised by how many pieces there were. “You’re not putting one in every room on the ship, I hope.” 

“Ideally,” Drift said with a wide smile and a too-cheerful sparkle in his optics, “we are putting them in every  _ doorway.” _

“There are too many doorways on this ship, even if you’re  _ not  _ including habsuites,” and the look Ratchet gave Drift said that even if he was, he’d better not be including  _ his  _ habsuite, “to decorate all of them. It would take too much time, and too much foil.” Whatever the stuff had been doing in their supplies, it had to have been there for a reason, and that meant using it all up on aesthetic inconveniences wasn’t practical.

“We’re not putting them in habs.” Drift laughed. “The point is to lure the evil spirits  _ away _ from people, so we definitely don’t want them  _ inside _ mechs’ bunks. And we’re not going to run out of foil. Perceptor’s making it, out of scrap metal.” He tested an LED from a pile of them, making sure it lit up at his comm signal. “These too.” Then he set it aside while he selected thirty new units to start assembling another charm.

So much for that objection. “And why,” Ratchet asked, regretting the words even as he said them, “do they need lights?”

“So they glow,” Drift responded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Ratchet frowned at the unhelpful answer. He was  _ not  _ going to ask why they needed to glow. He didn’t care why they needed to glow. “How many of these am I going to have to put up with in the medbay?” he asked instead, knowing there would be no keeping them out. Maybe if he’d still been the only medic on board, but the medbay was no longer purely his domain — and it was already overrun with foil, thanks to First Aid.

“Three, maybe five. You have three doors in there, but places where the sick and injured congregate are especially attractive to things that feed off of mechs in one way or another, and the off-liners are easy prey. More lures might be needed to entice any spirits away from them.”

Lures. Right. That was probably what the lights were for then, to fool the “evil spirits”. As if anything could mistake a cold, magnetically inert ball of folded foil bits for a living spark. “You realize the medical equipment will give away the fact that they’re not real.”

“You’re cute.”

“Yeah,” Tailgate called. “Evil spirits can’t read medical displays! Cyclonus has been telling me stories!”

“You believe this stuff too?” Ratchet raised a brow ridge as he turned to look at Cyclonus. 

Cyclonus met Ratchet’s look with an impassive one of his own. 

“You realize you’re asking the former undead general if he believes in supernatural evil things, right?” Sunstreaker chimed in without looking up from the foil he was working on.

“I am asking  _ everyone in this room,”  _ Ratchet growled, more irritated that they were all playing along than angry at anyone in particular, “if they actually believe ‘supernatural evil spirits’,” he unfolded his arms to add the quotes around the words with his fingers, “are stupid enough to be trapped by a bunch of flimsy craft projects.”

“Yes,” Drift and Cyclonus answered at the same time Sunstreaker and Skids said, “No.”

“Eh,  _ maybe,” _ Swerve said. “It’s not like I’m an expert on the woogy, woogy stuff, right?”

“I don’t think it matters,” Rewind said. “We’re all doing something together, and the ritual’ll make us feel good, even if it doesn’t do anything else.”

“Besides, they’re not flimsy craft projects,” Tailgate said, setting his finished piece aside and taking another piece of foil to start a new one. “They’re sparks!”

“Sparks. Of course. Because if that’s what you call them, that’s what they are.”

“Or spirit lanterns,” Drift said. “It’s a newer name for them.”

“And that is why they need to be blessed,” Cyclonus rumbled. “It is the invocation of Primus to protect us that turns them from mere foil and light into something that attracts and traps forces that would do us harm.”

Well and thoroughly outnumbered, Ratchet threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine. Make and bless your lanterns and put them wherever you want. I’m staying out of it.” And he was getting out of here, before Drift could try to fob a stack of foil off on him again. 

He didn’t want to just hole up in his habsuite, but there was no point in going back to the medbay; he’d be just as outnumbered, and First Aid would lead everyone in ganging up on him there too. Maybe if he couldn’t avoid it, he could at least find more sensible company among the scientists. Shuddering at the realization that he’d just thought of Brainstorm in the same context as sensible, Ratchet set off for Perceptor’s lab.

The frenzy of foil folding hadn’t invaded the halls (yet). Outside the social areas, the  _ Lost Light _ was still focused on the cycle-to-cycle activities of running the ship. 

The door to Brainstorm’s lab was open, while Perceptor’s was closed, but none of the warning lights were on. Ratchet pinged the door and it opened automatically, revealing both Perceptor and Brainstorm inside.

“Ratchet! Perfect! You can help me convince Perceptor to try out my new invention to speed up the process of generating foil sheets!” 

Ratchet looked dubiously at the gun (of course it was a gun) Brainstorm was brandishing with enthusiasm, then slid his optics over to Perceptor. “Do you even need to speed up the production of foil sheets?”

“No.” “Yes!”

“Okay, then while we’re not currently dealing with a foil shortage, why don’t you go work out exactly how much that thing will speed up production? With actual trial runs and data,” Ratchet emphasized, “not just theories. Then you can swoop in and save us at the last possible klik after we’ve lost all hope of ever being able to make enough spark-trap lantern-things.” 

“Booyah! Brainstorm to the rescue!”

Perceptor’s frame language remained neutral as the door swished closed behind the bouncing weapons developer. “That’ll only work for about the next ten breems or so.”

“Maybe, but it got rid of him for ten breems.” Ratchet looked at the chair Brainstorm hadn’t been using. “Mind if I stay until he comes back?” And possibly even then, depending on whether or not he could get a diversion to work a second time in a row.

“I am not engaged in anything particularly sensitive.” Perceptor gestured to the equipment currently rolling out thin sheets and fabricating LEDs. “Feel free.”

“Thanks.” Ratchet settled into the chair, then sighed. “I wasn’t expecting the ship to be overrun with spiritual nonsense when I got up this cycle.”

“I suppose that could be disconcerting.” Perceptor took a long oblong sheet out of the press, adjusted the width, and fed the sheet back through to press it thinner. “But after so long, it’s not in any of our natures to be indecisive.”

“No, it’s not. And, if I had to come down on one side or the other, I’d say that’s mostly a good thing. Still, it would have been nice to get a memo.” Chances were they’d just announced it over the non-emergency PA, meaning anyone in their habs at the time would have missed it. “How many of the things does Drift want anyway?”

“I helped him count out the doorways. He decided that there are fifty nine critical junctures, while ideal placement would require three hundred and thirteen spirit lanterns,” Perceptor answered blandly. “Knowing the dedication of the crew, the final number will likely be somewhere between the two.”

“They do look like an awful lot of work to put together,” Ratchet agreed. Making over three hundred of them, especially when only Drift and Cyclonus (and Skids, after he saw it done properly so he could pick it up) could assemble the finished product from all the disparate pieces. “I’m surprised that’s not what Brainstorm decided to focus on speeding up.”

“Perhaps he should have, except I do not believe he knows or cares how they are actually constructed,” the scientist said scathingly. “They are an elegant bit of geometry — all the more so for having been developed and primarily constructed by artisans and mystics, rather than engineers.”

“Really? There’s that much engineering involved?”

Perceptor set the finished sheet of foil onto a flat area and set what Ratchet recognized as an automatic laser cutter to run, paring down the thin oblong into rectangles of the proper size. “There is a great deal of engineering in any folded structure,” he replied, almost absently as he picked up bits of plastic and wire destined to become LEDs to work on while the laser cutter did its work. “Even if you take a piece of foil and randomly crumple it in your hand, the resulting structure has amazing and unexpected properties. Start applying deliberation and fold toward a specific goal, and fantastic things become possible.”

Looked like Perceptor had actually taken an interest in the things. “And here I thought they were just useless trinkets. They’ll collect more dust than anything else, especially evil spirits or bad energy. Can’t catch something that isn’t even there.”

“Agreed. But such a ceremony serves more purposes than the mystical. I’m not an expert in the psychology though.”

“Neither am I, but apparently Rung thinks it’ll empower Red Alert and Ultra Magnus is billing it as a team building exercise.” Which, putting aside the supernatural mumbo jumbo, it was doing a good job of. Ratchet couldn’t argue that everyone’s energy and morale was up, something that had been desperately needed after the disaster at Theophany. “I can appreciate it on those merits. I just wish it didn’t foster delusional thinking at the same time.”

“Mechs will believe what they believe.”

“Even in the face of a complete lack of evidence, yes, I know.”

“Assigning a supernatural cause to particular phenomena is not a lack of evidence.  _ Something _ happened, and believing in divinity — or in evil spirits — as a cause is seductive to many people. Especially if science is not up to the task of fully explaining what they are experiencing.” The laser cutter stopped, and Perceptor finished up the LED he was working on before sweeping the small pile of them into a container and turning his attention to separating the perfect foil rectangles from those with curved edges along the original sides of the sheet. Those went into a scrap pile, which Ratchet saw held both the scrap metal Perceptor was making the foil out of in the first place, and bits of flawed or crumpled foil that had been returned for recycling into more foil.

“Well in this case science  _ is  _ up to the task. Nothing that’s happened since we took off can’t be explained through perfectly ordinary means. Pointing to ghosts and spirits is just lazy.”

Perceptor let out a sudden chuckle.

“What? Why is that funny?” 

“Even  _ I _ wouldn’t call a  _ sparkeater _ or the abilities of a  _ titan  _ ‘perfectly ordinary’.”

“That’s not— you know what I mean!” The sparkeater and the titan weren’t things they had full, working understandings of, but they were still part of the physical world. “But that’s sort of my point. They aren’t straightforward explanations for the crazy things that have happened, but if we’d just written off Shock’s death or Ore suddenly coming back to life and talking as acts of Primus and stopped there, we would have limited our understanding.”

“Agreed. However,” Perceptor set the neat stack of foils aside, then selected a thick annealed sheet of metal and started running it through the press to thin it, “the reverse is also true.”

“The reverse?” Ratchet tried, and failed, to work out his meaning. “How so?”

“Simply because another labels what they are perceiving as mystical, does not make that perception false.”

“No,” Ratchet said, because of course people could, and did, perceive things as being mystical, but, “it just makes the label wrong.”

“Agreed.”

Feeling much better now than after the (good natured, yes, he recognized that) ribbing he’d gotten in Swerve’s, Ratchet was content to leave the topic at that for the moment. It still irked him that the entire crew had let themselves be pulled into Red Alert’s crazy idea. Drift organizing the whole thing — he knew why he’d take charge of it. Because he was  _ Drift, _ and he took every opportunity to talk about his rituals and beliefs to anyone who sat still long enough. Ratchet wouldn’t expect anything else from him at this point, but Sunstreaker and Skids and…  _ Ultra Magnus!?! _ Why?

But that wasn’t Perceptor’s field of expertise. Just knowing he wasn’t alone in feeling like this wasn’t going to do anything about  _ evil spirits _ was improving Ratchet’s mood.

“How is he?” Perceptor quietly interrupted Ratchet’s reverie. 

“He?”

“Drift.” Perceptor didn’t look up, invoking an illusion of intimacy. “I know he’s having nightmares still, about Theophany, but he won’t tell me how bad they are.”

Ratchet still took a moment to answer, debating how much Drift would want him to say. “I think he’s blaming himself,” he said finally. “Both for not somehow getting there in time to help the Circle fight off whoever took them in the first place, and for not being able to figure out where they were taken to so we can mount a rescue. He insists Dai Atlas is still alive,” though Ratchet still thought that to be wishful thinking on his part, “but no matter how much he meditates over that sword of his, he says he can’t get a fix on his location.”

“Worse than I’d hoped, but better than I’d expected then. Well, if it’s any consolation to him at all, it’s not his fault he can’t get a fix. It’s hard enough when there’s a clear stellar trail to follow.” 

“Hard enough… you mean you think he’s actually detecting something?”

Perceptor looked up, startled. “You don’t?”

“What’s to detect? There were signs most of the Circle was captured, but no proof any of them are still alive, let alone Dai Atlas specifically. I  _ hope  _ they are, for Drift’s sake as well as theirs, but if they aren’t…” Ratchet was worried. Drift didn’t need that guilt on top of everything he was already putting on himself.

“You said he was drawing the conclusion based from meditations on his Great Sword. In the absence of further evidence one way or another, I’d say that is — tentatively — conclusive.” Perceptor looked down at his hands, and almost seemed surprised when the current sheet of now-foil finished coming out of the press. “Tentative since, as you say, there is a possibility his emotions are clouding his perceptions.”

And here Ratchet had thought he was in good company. “Wishing for answers, no matter how you ritualize it, isn’t going to result in anything reliable. I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff?”

“I believe in evidence,” Perceptor said firmly. “Could you or I meditate over a sword — even a Great Sword — and come up with anything beyond our own inner thoughts? Of course not. But Drift has bonded with his Great Sword, and the evidence I have indicates our limits may not apply to him.”

Ratchet snorted. “I was thinking more of the limits of a chunk of metal. What evidence do you have that makes you think Drift can get more from his sword than I can from a laser scalpel?”

Perceptor finished setting the laser cutter to run again. “The data I have suggests that his Great Sword — perhaps all of them — are supernatural objects. ‘Super’ natural,” he clarified as Ratchet’s engine choked, “in its most literal meaning: an object exhibiting behaviors or abilities that cannot be fully explained by our current scientific understanding. The sword interferes with scientific monitoring equipment, producing strange readings if it is even slightly unsheathed within the same room, even if it is not the object under examination. The same  _ room, _ notice.  _ Not _ within a set distance from the equipment in question. It acts as a channel for spark energy. I have not seen it wielded in battle, but I have heard Drift’s account of doing so, and seen other, more minor, examples of this behavior. I have no reason to disbelieve his account. And finally, I have never seen it respond in any way except to Drift. Its abilities — and limits — change depending on who is holding it.”

“It’s never interfered with anything in the medbay,” Ratchet started to argue, then trailed off. Drift never had it unsheathed in the medbay. The only time Ratchet had ever seen even a little of the blade was when Drift was meditating on it in his room. “So what you’re saying is, you don’t understand how the sword works, and therefore it could be doing exactly what Drift says it’s doing?”

“Precisely. Given what little I do know, if he says he has been able to make a connection, however tenuous, though his sword with another Great Sword and determine that its wielder is among the living, I will not disbelieve him without evidence to the contrary.” Perceptor set another finished LED on his pile.

What could Ratchet say to that? “It’s still not Primus,” he said, not caring that it sounded petulant. “Whatever it’s doing, however it’s doing it, it’s not Primus, any more than the sparkeater or the titan.”

“Certainly not.”

That soothed some of Ratchet’s ruffled plating. “It’d be nice if it worked better,” he said, thinking about how drained and miserable Drift had looked after his last failure. “He’s exhausting himself and getting nowhere. It’s hard to watch.”

“I am not good at providing comfort,” Perceptor said bluntly. “I worry as well, and wish it would work better for him, but the only suggestions I could offer involve increasing the energy output of his spark. I’m sure I don’t need to tell  _ you _ the potential risks of that.”

“You really don’t, and you shouldn’t encourage anything of the sort. He’s desperate and guilty enough to try, regardless of the risks.” Ratchet glanced at the foil sheets, seeing them in a new light. “Perhaps, if nothing else, this whole exorcism thing is a good way to get his processor off it for a little while.”

Before Perceptor could respond, the door pinged then opened and Smokescreen walked in with his bucket filled with crumpled or miss-folded foils. “Hey, you two. Thought you were up in Swerve’s, doc?”

“I was, yes. Now I’m here.” Ratchet glanced at the scraps, spotting several more chewed pieces. “How many of those has Bob eaten so far?” 

“None that I know of.” Smokescreen looked through the bucket, chuckling at the number of chewed ones as well. “Sunstreaker wouldn’t keep giving them to him if he was swallowing them, right?”

“You can put them with the rest of the scraps,” Perceptor said with a gesture. He smiled, like he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than manufacture supplies. “I’ll have another batch of foil ready in a klik.”

“No rush.” Smokescreen dumped the foils out and twirled his bucket in his hands as he leaned against one wall to watch.

“So this is just what everyone’s going to be doing this whole shift, is it?” Ratchet asked, wondering how close they would come to the goal in that time.

“Probably. Better than raining Decepticons. You’re the only one not enjoying yourself.” The bucket spun again. “I’ve got a pool running on how many we end up with. Since your paramour is the one doing the most critical bit, you wanna weigh in?”

Ratchet shook his head. “Not this time,” he said. He preferred betting on outcomes to betting on numbers, and being with Drift didn’t really give him any insight here, especially since Drift wasn’t the  _ only  _ one doing the tricky assembling. He turned to Perceptor. “Do you have anything on a final count?”

“I’ve already placed a bet,” Perceptor said smugly. “Using an algorithm based on the  _ Lost Light’s _ available craftsmechs, their dispositions, and attitudes toward similar activities.”

“Perceptor’s got money on seventy-seven through eighty-two, which are safe odds,” Smokescreen put in with another twirl of his bucket. “And also on one hundred and fifty-two through fifty-seven, which is high enough it pays out triple.”

“Good luck with that,” Ratchet said with a light chuckle. He was perfectly happy to sit back and watch from the sidelines on this one. “And while I wish you all luck with making the things, I think I’ll go find something productive to do.”

He bumped into Brainstorm on his way out.

“Look!” Ratchet was forced to sidestep around him as the mech tried to thrust something in his face. “I made a folding gun! See?” Without any warning, he pulled the trigger. Ratchet flinched, but the gun didn’t fire anything. Instead, it crumpled and collapsed in on itself, folding like an accordion until it was less than a quarter of its original size. “Ta da!”

Ratchet stared stupidly at the transformed weapon. “Wonderful. Really helpful. Go show Perceptor.”

“I will!” He did something (obviously not pulling the trigger because it didn’t  _ have _ one anymore) and the gun unfolded, back to its full size. “This is awesome!” He flitted through the door and Ratchet heard Smokescreen greet the scientist as it swished shut.

Glad to have escaped that particular craziness, Ratchet returned to the medbay and its brand of lunacy. There were things he could work on there, useful things, while everyone else was occupied with their foil — which, he could accept, was useful to them.

Still didn’t mean he was going to participate.

He wasn’t alone in abstaining, he discovered. First Aid looked up as he came in, but Ratchet waved him off — he wasn’t hurt — and the other medic went back to showing Atomizer how to make foil units. Whirl, though, was perched on one of the medberths, head tilted away from the demonstration. Visibly sulking.

Ratchet paused as he walked past him. “Stupid, aren’t they?” he said, carefully not looking at Whirl’s pincers. It was one thing to choose not to get involved, but the very nature of the activity was excluding Whirl. “Glad I’m not the only one staying out of it.”

“They’re fiddly and stupid and I  _ hates _ them,” Whirl announced loudly and too-insistently. “I want nothing to do with them.”

“That’s okay,” First Aid said encouragingly. “Drift’s already said you can help destroy them when we’re done.”

“I don’t need pity.”

“How is asking you to help destroy things pity?” It sounded more like bowing to the inevitable to Ratchet.

The lenses in Whirl’s optic shifted unhappily. “Nevermind!” he snapped. Then his head tilted to look at Ratchet properly for the first time. “So,” he brightened, voice becoming manic and mischievous, “if you’re not making the dumb folding things, what  _ are _ you doing, doc?” His pincers clacked twice.  _ Clack. Clack. _

“I,” Ratchet said, refusing to be distracted or intimidated, “am going to gather up the spent slugs and chips that have been collecting in the corners around here and program some new scripts. We’re running low on pre-made pain blocks.” 

Whirl tilted his head and Ratchet wondered what he was thinking. He managed to be a lot more expressive with a single optic than he should have been capable of, but it didn’t change the fact that his expressions were limited. 

“Boring!” he finally announced, flopping onto the medberth in an untidy sprawl Ratchet couldn’t imagine was at all comfortable. “I was hoping you were doing something fun.”

Huh? Maybe he hadn’t been trying to be intimidating. The large claws made any gesture inherently semi-threatening, even when no actual threat was intended. “We’re in the medbay. Nothing fun ever happens here. Ask anyone.”

“I thought maybe Firstie and Ambulon fragged in here,” Whirl said brightly, while First Aid choked and Atomizer snickered. “‘Cuz they don’t in their habs. Believe me, I’ve tried to catch them at it and they don’t. But we can go someplace else. Hey!” He sat up so fast he almost fell off the berth. “You wanna go sneak into Dippy’s room and see if he’s got anything fun? You’ve got a passcode, right?”

“It’s hardly sneaking if you use a passcode,” Ratchet scoffed, dodging the question. “And I’m not going anywhere; I’ve got work to do here.”

“Pfft. Liar.” Pincers clacked again. “This is Firstie’s shift. He’ll go do the boring thing as soon as he’s done coddling the klutz there,” he waved in Atomizer’s direction. “Come on, doc. Or I’ll just have to  _ find _ something for me to do… unsupervised.”

Whirl wanted to hang out with him?  _ Whirl  _ wanted to  _ hang out  _ with  _ him? _ What had he done to deserve this? “No. I’m not helping you break into Drift’s room, I’m not going back to Swerve’s, I’m not doing anything even remotely entertaining. Go ahead and find something unsupervised to do. I’m going to bury myself in work,” even if it wasn’t work he personally should be doing right now, “so no one can try to rope me into doing anything else I don’t want to do.” Like babysit Whirl, or fold foil segments.

“No need to be like that, doc!” Whirl shimmied off the medberth. “I’ll just go pick a fight with Cyclonus or start throwing chairs around Swerve’s or something else equally destructive.” Anyone else might have sounded petulant, listing off all the ways they could cause trouble after being rejected, but Whirl sounded excited. “Or~,” he sing-songed, “you won’t see me  _ at all _ and you’ll just  _ wonder _ what sort of trouble I’m causing.” 

“I look to hearing all about it later,” First Aid called cheerfully as he strutted to the door. 

Whirl stopped and looked back over his shoulder, and Ratchet saw him straighten a little, his rotors buzzing.

“I do,” the medic insisted. 

“You’ve been together long enough to know he means it,” Ratchet said, giving Whirl a helpless shrug. “Maybe see if you can find something that’ll surprise him.”

“Maybe I will!” Whirl rubbed his claws together maniacally and scampered out.

“Whatever he does, you’re dealing with it,” Ratchet told First Aid.

“I know.” This did not seem to upset First Aid at all.

Atomizer gave him a weirded out look and scooted away. “Hey doc. Should I be worried? I think your cute apprentice might be out of his bleedin’ mind.”

“Not in a way that would jeopardize your quality of care,” Ratchet said honestly, “but yes. Totally nuts.” He smiled at First Aid as he said it. “I’m going to hole up in the office. Feel free to interrupt me in the unlikely event anything comes up.” 

“I will.”

The office was cool and  _ quiet _ and totally empty of foil. It had work. Lots of boring busywork. Ratchet started with the task he’d mentioned to Whirl and collected up the spent dataslugs and chips to copy new scripts onto. A nuisance to have to keep doing, but permanent scripts lent themselves to abuse too easily, and using the same program too frequently in the same patient resulted in their systems writing counterscripts as if the block was a virus; both of which made self-terminating blocks worth the effort.

The sad truth was that many of the  _ Lost Light’s _ crew already had counterscripts for many of the pain blocks that had been common when the war started. Only a few who hadn’t seen the front lines often, as well as Tailgate and Cyclonus, thanks to their protracted absences, were still susceptible to them. Too often, there just hadn’t been time to vary the programs the way they should have been, and just as often, a front line medic received a patient in pieces and getting him stable enough to evacuate was more important than parsing his medical history.

Ambulon had been a blessing in that regard, actually. He had what Ratchet had considered a fresh energon mine of Decepticon specific pain blocks and other medical scripts in his processor. Drift and Ambulon himself were the only ones who currently had any counterscripts to those.

It took a delightfully long time. Tracking down all the spent datachips was almost as time consuming as actually copying the scripts from the master files. It didn’t matter that there was a bin for the things; somehow they always wound up tossed wherever, and Ratchet found them buried under datapads and tools, jammed into whatever spare space there was on overcrowded shelves, and even some kicked into corners on the floor (but none crushed beyond re-use this time, fortunately).

Once their supply of pre-programmed pain blockers was back up to where it should be, Ratchet focused on other remedies that were used, and used up, frequently: hangover cures, standard antiviral updates, and sleep aids. Those didn’t take as long. Ratchet had already found all the spent chips, for one, and for two they kept a smaller supply of those pre-programmed and ready to go. Most of their supply of sleep aids was destined for Rung’s office, for him to dispense according to his patients’ psychological needs, instead of kept on hand here in medbay, and he hadn’t indicated he needed a resupply yet. But there were always those who felt more comfortable coming to Ratchet or First Aid or, more rarely, Ambulon for that sort of thing, and the medics could give out one dose, along with the advice they go to Rung if they had further trouble. There were also more powerful sedative scripts for use in the medbay itself, but until they got another bout of the engine coughs, it was just easier to put a patient in medical stasis for repairs.

Still not ready to go out and face the religious mania that had taken over the ship, Ratchet started sorting, organizing, and updating the medbay files in general next. He noticed that a lot of mechs hadn’t come in to get a copy of their updated files recently. At some point it had become standard practice for many mechs to carry a dataslug with a copy of their service, medical, and psych records encoded on it, just in case they ended up being evacuated to a different facility than their units, or were reassigned and their records didn’t make the trip with them, or the computers containing the records were blown up along with the rest of their ship… It wasn’t required, by any means, but Ratchet had always found it helpful to be able to pull the dataslug out of a marked compartment on the mech’s frame and check if he had any allergies before administering something that could cause a fatal reaction.

He shrugged. If mechs were feeling secure enough that the  _ Lost Light _ would survive anything that didn’t kill them all to let that slide, there was nothing Ratchet could do about it. All he could do was send out a general ping with a reminder, and flag charts so he could ask patients if they wanted their copies next time he hauled their afts in for a physical.

Digital housekeeping being a task that was  _ never _ complete, that kept him occupied until someone knocked on the office door.

“Yes?” Ratchet minimized the chart he was updating, and looked up as the door opened. 

Drift poked his head in. “First Aid wants to know if you’re going to stop sulking and come out to take your shift.”

“I didn’t say that!” First Aid called from somewhere behind him.

“Of course I’m going to take my shift,” Ratchet said, waving Drift away. “I’ll finish this up and be right out — because I’m  _ not  _ sulking.”

“Of course you aren’t. I’ll wait.”

Ratchet heard him and First Aid talking as the door shut. With a quiet laugh, he pulled the chart back up and finished quickly, closing out everything when he was done for whoever had time to continue later. Then, bracing himself for what he knew was on the other side of the door (he hadn’t been sulking, but he’d absolutely been avoiding), he stepped out into the main medbay.

Drift was finishing up one last spark-lantern thing, while First Aid cleaned up the unused foils and LEDs. 

“Of course I’m coming!” First Aid gushed. “I wouldn’t miss it. Ambulon said he’d watch for a bit too.”

“No need to stay the  _ whole _ time,” Drift answered with a chuckle. “If everyone tries to stay to see them all go up, it’ll get crowded in the halls. And probably a bit boring.”

“Don’t worry, someone can have my spot,” Ratchet said. “I’m already going to have to watch you put up the ones in here, aren’t I?”

“Yep,” Drift answered smugly. “Can’t escape the whole thing.” He wiggled the last bit of foil into place and held it up for the two medics to see. The light inside came on, just barely bright enough to be seen through the foil in the bright lights of the medbay. “And then you have to put up with them for a whole  _ decacycle.” _ Drift’s voice and field were almost unbearably smug.

Ratchet gave the thing a withering stare. “Lucky me.” 

“They’re going to be so pretty though,” First Aid cooed. “Ultra Magnus agreed to dim the lights in some of the residential halls so they’ll be more visible, and Swerve said he was going to do spark-gazing times, where he’ll turn the lights nearly off so people can  _ really _ see them.”

“Really? That’s great! Can I get a schedule of when he plans to do that?” Ratchet asked with exaggerated, blatantly mock-enthusiasm. “So I can avoid being there for any of them by accident?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Drift said, with equally blatant mock-serenity. “You’ll be happy to hear that they’ll be clustered in Swerve’s, and, at Red Alert’s insistence, the engine room, with only a few ‘cluttering up the hallways’. We didn’t get enough made to put them in every doorway on the ship.” He didn’t seem more than a little disappointed by this, though. Ratchet supposed that meant he had enough for all the critical points he’d identified.

“What I’m happy about is that they don’t stand out too much in the full lighting you can’t do anything about in here. Anything to pass on before you leave?” Ratchet asked, turning his attention to First Aid. The sooner they left, the less he’d have to put up with.

“Just the usual assortment of mishaps,” First Aid answered, picking up the box of craft supplies. “Chromedome and Rewind were in here again to get their cords untangled.”

“Again?” Ratchet sighed. “Maybe we should get them both in here for some tips on avoiding that particular problem.” And some rather personal questions about just what it was they were doing that kept resulting in tangling. Ratchet didn’t have any desire to get involved in their private business, but he wasn’t going to let the nature of the activity stop him from addressing the problem. “Nothing Whirl related? He all but promised to cause trouble on his way out.”

“Not a peep.”

“He’ll come out when he’s done.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Oh, well. He’d deal with whatever the fallout was when it happened. “If that’s all then, feel free to head on out. Have fun watching Drift hang up his dust catchers.”

“We will!”

Drift paused and held out his hand as First Aid trotted to the door. Ratchet stared at it blankly for a nanoklik, then reached out to take it. “Do a good job,” he said with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t give Red Alert any excuse to call for a do-over.”

“I’ll try, but Primus may have other ideas.” Before Ratchet could sputter indignantly, Drift swept him into a brief hug and bunted their helm crests together. “I’ll see you later.”

“Dawwww…” First Aid paused in the doorway to look back at them.

“OUTTA THE WAY, ZOUNDERKITES!” First Aid ducked as Whirl flew in, rotors whirring. Bits of foil from the craft box went flying everywhere and Drift’s finished spark-lantern bounced away as he pulled Ratchet to the ground. “WHIRL TO THE RESCUE! BOOYAH!”

“Rescue via decapitation?!” Ratchet growled from where he lay pinned beneath Drift. “There’s a reason flying isn’t allowed in the halls, Whirl!”

“WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE SOUND OF HOW AWESOME I AM!” He transformed and landed lightly in the middle of the room. “Ta-da!”

Almost afraid of what he was going to see, Ratchet pushed Drift off of him so he could get back to his feet. Scowling furiously, he came face to face with — a box of foil sparks?

First Aid peeked around the taller helicopter to see as well and squealed. “You did it! Look at them all! They’re so pretty!”

Whirl preened.

Drift shook his head and sat up, getting his opticful. “Wow.”

“You… you made all of these?” Ratchet asked, forgetting his anger in his surprise. There were so many of them! And not just pieces either, no; these were fully assembled, LEDs and everything. “That’s incredible.”

Whirl bounced on his thin heels, then shoved the box in Drift’s direction. “Here, Dippy.” He clacked his pincers; this time Ratchet couldn’t mistake the gesture for anything but excitement. “You may all now tell me how magnificent I am.”

“I’m so proud of you,” First Aid said immediately. “They are going to be the best and brightest ones on the whole ship.”

Whirl twitched.

Ratchet lifted one of the sparks out of the box while Drift was busy counting them. “They’re certainly the most precisely folded of all the ones I’ve seen,” he had to admit. The segments all had crisp, clean corners and edges, and they fitted together so closely he would never have spotted the joints if he hadn’t known where to look. It really was magnificent work — and from  _ Whirl!  _ How had he managed all this? “You win. I’m impressed.”

“Agreed,” Drift said, putting them all back into the box. “You win. There’s about sixty here.”

Whirl bounced on his heels again, pincers clicking. It seemed like he wasn’t quite sure how to react to the praise, even though he’d been bragging just a klik ago. “Whatever,” he finally managed. “Not my fault you’re easily impressed.”

“Come on,” First Aid urged with a tug toward the door. “Let’s get you all shined up for the ceremony. Then we can tell  _ everyone _ you made the best spirit lanterns.”

Ratchet handed the one he’d been examining back to Drift. “How many does this give you all together?”

“One hundred and fifty four, give or take one,” Drift plucked the proffered one from Ratchet’s fingers, “or two.”

“Huh.” Now Ratchet was  _ really  _ glad he’d stayed out of the betting pool. “Stop by Perceptor’s lab, if you don’t run into him in the halls,” he told Whirl. Clearly, the scientist had known somehow that he was capable of this. “I think he owes you a thank you.”

“You’re  _ telling _ me to go harass the dork?” Whirl cackled, letting First Aid tow him out. 

“Sniper dork!” Drift called, fishing the one that had been sent flying by Whirl’s rotors out from under a medberth.

“I’ll just—”  _ Fortunately, _ the medbay door closed before they were subjected to any more of that.

Ratchet offered a hand to Drift to help him up. “Did you know he could do things like that too?” he asked, realizing that Perceptor had been betting using insider Wrecker info again.

“I knew he could assemble his own microgrenades, and that he’s never met a prank he couldn’t accomplish on his own. But no, nothing like that.” Drift deliberately overbalanced himself while standing so Ratchet ended up with an armful of white plating. “Hi. Where were we when he interrupted?”

“Right about here, I think.” Ratchet smiled, linking his arms together around Drift’s waist. “Guess you’re going to be busy for awhile, blessing all those extra sparks.”

“Blessing, placing, partying…” Drift returned the embrace, linking his arms together over Ratchet’s shoulders. “Probably take the whole shift. We’ll try and keep it to a dull roar when we come through here, and you’re welcome to join us for the after-party at Swerve’s.” He bunted their helm crests together affectionately. “Boosh.”

Ratchet chuckled, returning the gesture. “We’ll see. I might have enough patience to put up with a crowd of drunken, pseudo-religious zealots after work.”

Drift chuckled. “Lucky for you, the only actual-religious zealots on this ship aren’t going to be getting drunk.” His field buzzed happily against Ratchet’s plating.

“Hmm, too bad. Might make the zealotry more tolerable.” Though in fact, seeing Drift in such a good mood, after how stressed he’d been, was putting Ratchet in a fairly good mood about the stupid exorcism. 

Drift bunted him again. “See you there,” he said. “Or after. But Whirl isn’t the only one who needs to shine up a bit.” Still, he didn’t let go.

“I would help you,” Ratchet said, genuinely regretting that he couldn’t, “but I’m on the clock now. You’ll just have to manage on your own.” He didn’t let go either.

A klik ticked by, then a second, and then with a groan, Drift finally pulled away. “See you after.”

“See you after,” Ratchet confirmed. He waited until Drift had gone, watching him until he disappeared into the hall, then turned back to the medbay. Time to update some more charts and draft a message for the perpetually entangled conjunx endurae.

Even by the standards of a slow cycle in medbay, this cycle was  _ slow. _ Not a single person darkened Ratchet’s doorway for several joors. It was equal measures relaxing and frustrating, since it meant he had plenty of time to finish up all the little, menial tasks, but then nothing to do afterwards — and nothing to hide behind to avoid the imminent religious procession. 

He was debating the merits of shutting himself in the office and just pretending to be busy when the first onlookers arrived. The door slid open and Pipes, Hound, and Powerglide all came in, speaking in hushed giggles that said they had started the after party a bit early.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’re here as patients?” Ratchet asked, looking them over. 

“Naw,” Hound gave him a sunny grin. “Ultra Magnus said only six spectators allowed in the medbay, so we’re claiming our spots early!”

“Uh huh. That worth seeing, is it? Or were there limits on all the locations and this is the first you’ve made it to?”

“Both!” Pipes piped up. “You should see the engine room. Packed.”

“Pass.” Ratchet was Not Interested. “Go ahead and stay. There’s nothing here to get in the way of. I’ll be in here,” he walked over to the office, “if anything medical comes up. Otherwise, don’t bother me. Got it?”

“Sure, Ratchet.”

He escaped as Pointblank and Polaris wandered in, already debating which berth was likely to give them the best view. With the door shut behind him, Ratchet smiled at the irony.  _ He  _ actually had a pretty good view from in here, if he turned on the monitor that showed the video feeds from the main bay and ISO. 

The blank screen stared back at him when he looked over at it, all but daring him. 

It wasn’t like they would know he was watching, he decided, flipping the switch. He was still Not Interested, and there was no way he wanted to give Drift the impression that he was — he’d never let it go if he did — but he might be, just a little bit, curious.

The screen blinked on without fanfare, showing the group had been joined by Ammo, making six. It probably wasn’t going to be too long before the procession itself came through. Good thing too, since they were all just drunk enough to start causing trouble if they were left alone too long.

Sure enough, they were soon joined by Drift and his entourage. Ratchet wasn’t surprised to see Red Alert and Rodimus by his side, or Cyclonus’ stolid presence. He was, however, unprepared for how Drift  _ looked.  _ He’d done more than shine up a bit! The red cape and mantle with the heavy gold collar piece was probably quite old, but it was brand new to Ratchet, and he couldn’t help staring.

The monitor didn’t have sound, so Ratchet couldn’t hear what they were saying, but while there seemed to be a great deal of ceremony to how they moved, to the way each participant addressed each other, there didn’t seem to be much seriousness. Everyone (except Cyclonus) grinned and smiled, and the audience waved and clapped, as Rodimus held out the first foil spark to Drift, who made several gestures as he spoke — blessing it. The light inside came on right as he finished, a bit of blatant showmanship that was probably a lot more impressive in the dimmer areas of the ship. Then the captain handed the lit lantern out to Red Alert, who took it as carefully as if it were actually a spark, and retrieved a second for Drift to bless.

The second one went to Cyclonus, and once Rodimus was holding a third glowing spark of his own, they started looking for places to hang them. 

That was apparently an audience-participation part of the ritual, because the watchers didn’t hesitate to jump up and offer hands or shoulders to climb on, or point out places where they’d like to see them hung.

“Don’t you dare put them somewhere I’ll have to move them later,” Ratchet grumbled ineffectually at the screen. Fortunately, while Pipes and Powerglide were trying to have the sparks put up where they’d be incredibly in the way, the others were a little more sensible in their suggestions. 

Soon they were all hung, all in places they (thankfully) wouldn’t be too annoying, and the whole group filed out. Cyclonus was the only one not laughing and exchanging playful shoves, but he nodded along with what was being said. It was kind of nice to see him being included, and mechs other than Tailgate talking to him, since he was generally disliked for his prickly attitude and Decepticon-like opinions — not to mention more than one crewmember had first hand experience with him as Galvatron’s general, including several who’d been in the medbay observing and who were now trying to pull him into their conversation. Red Alert trotted ahead, but Drift lingered behind, pausing long enough to give the medbay camera a brief wave before letting Rodimus tow him out with a bounce.

Sweet of him, even if Ratchet was still scowling at the new decorations and absolutely was not going to admit to seeing him do it. 

Ratchet waited another klik for good measure, then shut off the monitor and came out of hiding. There wasn’t really anything to clean up; once he pushed a couple of berths and a mobile scanner back into place, there was no evidence anyone had been through at all, besides the glowing spark lanterns they’d left behind. Relatively unobtrusive, out of the way… He supposed he could deal with them for a decacycle. 

_ Now _ people started to trickle in with the usual party-related ailments. It was too soon for hangovers, but scratches, sprained cables, and over indulgences came in in ones and twos. Ratchet welcomed the activity, and the opportunity to lecture. That kind of carelessness was bad enough on a regular basis, but it was particularly silly to get hurt celebrating “spiritual health” and then have to come to a medic. Primus sure as frag didn’t pop dents, fill scratches, or unkink cables!

As an additional annoyance,  _ someone _ started making little… decorations from extra foils, and mechs began  _ wearing _ them, of all things. They laughed, and compared their wire-strung folded things, or showed them off and insisted on talking about them to Ratchet, then forgot them on the berths when they left. Flex even tried giving a neck-chain of little cubes to him!

Ratchet took advantage of a lull to sweep up all the forgotten trinkets, but something stopped him from just throwing them away. Maybe it was the thought of Drift’s face, imagining how sad he would look at seeing everyone’s hard work and “positive energy” crumpled up in the trash. With a put-upon sigh, Ratchet dumped out a nearly empty box of self-sealing temp patches and set it by the door with all the little folded trinkets. They were less offensive when they weren’t scattered around everywhere, and the handwritten glyphs he put on the box had most patients grabbing one on their way out, even if they left others behind.

Ambulon walked in as Ratchet was dumping another batch of foil things in the box and shrugged. “That official policy?”

Ratchet straightened to answer, then stopped. Ambulon had a foil head piece of some sort perched on his helm. The other medic raised an optic ridge, daring Ratchet to say something about it.

“For as long as the sparks are up it is,” Ratchet said, deciding not to comment. Privately, he blamed First Aid. “After they come down, the box and all the other foil garbage is just that — garbage.”

“Gotcha. Any pass-ons?”

“No one’s banged themselves up badly enough they couldn’t walk back out the door,” yet, “so no.” Ratchet headed for the door himself. “Hope you brought something to keep yourself busy if it doesn’t pick up.”

“I’ve a queue of drunk-pings to go through as long as this starship,” Ambulon said dryly. “Did you know that sitting at the same  _ table _ as Whirl doesn’t stop him from drunk-pinging you whenever something catches his interest?”

“I did not.” Ratchet didn’t exactly make a habit of sharing a table with Whirl. “Lucky you.”

Ambulon shrugged. “I’ve dealt with worse. Go have fun, boss.”

Fun. How much “fun” was he in the mood for? Despite the invasion of the foil, and the knowledge that it would be even worse at Swerve’s, Ratchet decided to go ahead and check out the party. 

The glowing sparks were impossible to miss in the hallways: as Drift had said they would be, they were hung in or near doorways. Already several corridors had been dimmed to make them stand out as bright points of light. The effect was actually a bit eerie. Real sparks weren’t quite so symmetrical, but the spirit lanterns did look a little like their namesake, giving the impression of wandering sparks — or ghosts — floating down the halls.

The effect was even more pronounced in Swerves itself, where he had dimmed the lights almost to the point of turning them off, though the party kept the atmosphere from being at all somber. The sparks glowed blue overhead while fanciful flutes and glasses glowed in all the other colors of the rainbow on the tables, and everyone’s optics and biolights stood out brightly with the combination of low light and excess energy.

Ratchet lingered in the doorway to get a feel for the crowd. There was no denying the electromagnetic backdrop in the room was one of the warmest, most positive atmospheres he’d encountered in a long time. Whatever the exorcism did or didn’t accomplish spiritually, this was a  _ measurably  _ good outcome, and Ratchet could appreciate that.

The relatively small bar was quite full. Ratchet had to elbow his way up to the counter, putting some of the dings and dents he’d been fixing over the last few joors into new perspective. He wasn’t even drunk yet, and already he’d picked up a nick or two just from everyone jostling around! 

As he pushed himself past the last knot of mechs and leaned over the bar to wave for Swerve’s attention, he noticed that there was some sort of mood music — lively, but soft — playing behind the bar. He hadn’t been able to hear it at all above the din of mechs talking!

“Hey, Ratch!” Swerve waved, noticing his new customer even while engrossed in a conversation at the other end of the bar. “Your usual or you want something else tonight?”

“Maybe something a little less heavy hitting than the usual,” Ratchet answered, for once not looking to get drunk as quickly as possible. 

“Solar Sunset?” Swerve offered, naming a drink made from a mixture of engex and plain solar energon, layered to create an effect said to be inspired by the sunset over the Rust Sea. Who knew if it had ever been true, but the effect was was nothing like any of the sunsets anywhere on Cybertron now. “I’ll even include a firework swizzle stick treat.”

“Sure.” It had been awhile since he’d had one, but it was a drink he enjoyed. 

The bartender excused himself from his conversation partners and went to mix the drink. Interestingly, instead of just pouring in the engex and layering the midgrade on top of it, he started with a dark brown syrup of some sort and tilted the glass one way, then the next to “paint” a trio of “dunes” on the inside of the glass, then repeated the technique with a dark red syrup.  _ Then _ he poured in the first layer of bright red highgrade, and carefully layered two different colors of midgrade on top of it. 

“Here. Paying now, or just put it on your tab?” Swerve delivered the drink — painted effect and all — to Ratchet. He plunked the swizzle stick into the glass with a flourish.

“Put in on my tab. I’ll settle it when I leave tonight.” Ratchet liked the convenience of having a tab open, but the current one had been going for awhile and he didn’t like to go longer than a couple of decacycles without paying the bill. The amount could get a little scary, otherwise. “Where’d you get the idea for this?” he asked, intrigued by the artistry of the drink.

“Sunstreaker ordered it like that earlier. Neat, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” It looked very nice, and Ratchet suspected it would taste slightly different from what he remembered. Still good though, if not even better; Sunstreaker had good taste. “If I come back for another, consider it a success.” 

“Right on.” Before Ratchet could worry about being drawn into a conversation, though, Swerve was waved down by someone else who’d just pushed his way to the bar. Rather than try to hold onto his spot, Ratchet moved away so others had more room to order and took his drink with him, looking for somewhere he could stand without getting repeatedly knocked into. Not an easy task, given the size of the party. He ended up just kind of moving with the crowd as it circulated.

Eventually he stumbled across the source of the new invasion of foil things: Sunstreaker was holding court in one of the booths, entertaining a crowd by turning extra squares of foil into various different things. Ratchet watched him finish up another head-thing like Ambulon’s and plunk it down on Rung’s head. He didn’t immediately see Bob, but then noticed Brainstorm nearby, laughing as the wayward insecticon chewed on something that looked suspiciously like a big gun. 

“Isn’t that a violation of Swerve’s ‘No Guns, No Swords, No Briefcases’ rule?” Ratchet asked once he got close enough to be heard without shouting.

Brainstorm held up the hand not occupied with his drink; in it was his briefcase. He shrugged. “It doesn’t fire anything — yet — anyway. I’m stress testing the frame!”

“Of course you are.” But as long as Brainstorm said it wasn’t dangerous — yet — Ratchet was willing to let it go. He wasn’t here to be Ultra Magnus, after all. “Just don’t let him run off with it.”

“I’m not that drunk yet!” Brainstorm laughed and nudged Bob affectionately with his foot. Ratchet rolled his optics and continued on, moving slowly around the perimeter of the room.

“Are you making more foil things?” he asked First Aid when he reached the table he and Whirl were sitting at. Tailgate had taken what had probably been Ambulon’s seat, and both he and First Aid had several crumpled bits of foil between them. “Or just making a mess?”

“Sunstreaker showed us how to make something he called a flower, but I think we’re too drunk,” First Aid giggled.

“I’m not!” Whirl called out, waving a pincer in the air. “I’m not making anything so pansy-aft!” He wasn’t trying to make anything, as far as Ratchet could tell. He was just slumped over the table in front of First Aid, letting him absently pet him between folding attempts.

“Nutjob isn’t very helpful,” Tailgate said cheerfully.

“‘Nutjob’ used up his helpfulness earlier,” in a way that still made Ratchet pause to think about. “He’s earned the right not to make anything else.”

“They were pretty amazing though!” Tailgate gushed, much to Whirl’s obvious pleasure. “All of those extras… More is definitely better when it comes to the spark-lanterns!”

“Want to join us?” First Aid asked.

A low-priority message popped up on Ratchet’s HUD, signed with a lewd cord emoji instead of a proper communication address. First Aid snickered, apparently having gotten the same message.

“Maybe later,” Ratchet said, shooting Whirl a look. Ambulon hadn’t been kidding about the drunk-pings. At least he wasn’t sending such things to Tailgate, who continued playing with his mangled foil, oblivious. “I’m still looking for Drift.”

“That way,” First Aid set down his current foil project long enough to point. “You can’t miss him with the, the cape thing he has!”

“That thing is so cool!” Tailgate practically yelled, and another ping from Whirl appeared in Ratchet’s inbox. “I kind of want one, but Drift says there’s a lot of work involved before I could earn it. Maybe I’ll just get a cape.”

“You’d look good in a cape,” First Aid told him.

“Capes are—” impractical and silly at best and downright dangerous at worst, Ratchet started to say, then stopped himself. Tailgate didn’t need a lecture on the all the problems and potential injuries capes could lead to right now. Not when he wouldn’t remember a word of it later. “Capes are a bold fashion statement,” he said instead. Whirl cackled, and the next ping contained a cartoon of a seeker wearing a cape getting tossed around in the wind as he attempted to fly. “I’ll see you guys later.”

The pings didn’t stop as Ratchet wound his way through the crowd, looking for Drift and his ornate cape… thing. He was sure there was an official name for the garment, but since he didn’t know what it was, cape thing would have to do.

When he did find Drift, he wasn’t surprised to see Cyclonus sitting with him while they talked. Or Rodimus passed out between them, laying over two chairs. “All celebrated out, is he?” Ratchet asked, drawing their attention.

“He’s more tired than drunk,” Drift said affectionately. “He did well.”

“Ironic as it was to have the young brat stand in as the community elder,” Cyclonus added, somewhat less affectionately, “I saw no problems with his performance.”

“Glad it went well.” Once was enough. “Rodimus does love to put on a good show.”

“Join us?”

“If there’s room.” Ratchet looked down at Rodimus. “Maybe we can drape him over the table.” Like Whirl, only more unconscious.

Cyclonus looked vaguely pained. “You can have my seat. I should make sure some of this ship’s more unsavory elements aren’t doing anything… untoward.”

“He’s afraid Whirl’s going to corrupt poor, helpless Tailgate,” Drift said, sotto voce, and Cyclonus turned his vaguely pained look on him.

“I still do not understand how you can be so cavalier about him,” the large purple mech said, looming,  _ maybe _ without meaning to, over them as he stood.

Drift shrugged. “I’ve got history with Whirl.”

“He’s not sending his trashy stream-of-consciousness drunk-pings to Tailgate, for what that’s worth,” Ratchet said. “Though I’ll be happier when he stops sending them to  _ me.” _

“Lovely,” Cyclonus said flatly.

“Just block his number for the next couple of joors,” was Drift’s advice. “He’s probably got you on a shortcut list, like the rest of us.”

“Why didn’t I already think of that?” Ratchet pulled up Whirl’s frequency and blocked it, setting a reminder to undo it later. He could still get through on the emergency medical line if he had something important to say in the meantime. “Thanks,” he said, both to Drift for the advice and Cyclonus for the chair. 

“Enjoy the rest of the party.” Cyclonus bowed shallowly, then turned to weave his way through the crowd, headed in the direction Ratchet had come from.

Drift held out his hand as Ratchet as he slid into the now-available seat. Ratchet took it, much quicker on the uptake this time. “Congratulations on a successful exorcism,” he said, raising his glass in toast.

“Thanks.” He lifted Ratchet’s hand to bunt it affectionately. “That means a lot, coming from you.” Amusement danced in the speedster’s optics. “You’ve got a,” he gestured to his own finial with his other hand, where one of Sunstreaker’s “flowers” perched precariously. “On your chevron.”

“I’ve got a what?” Ratchet set down his drink and reached up to check. Sure enough, his fingers encountered foil. “Where the frag did that come from?”

“Who knows?” Drift left his own flower where it was and took a sip of his colorful glowing drink. “They’re everywhere. Sunstreaker’s very popular right now.”

“I saw that when I came in. Nice to know who to blame for them.” Ratchet pulled the flower free from his chevron and examined it. A little bit lopsided, and with a hole punched through one petal, but otherwise in good shape. 

Ratchet threw it at Drift.

Drift’s optics blinked off, then back on, as the bit of foil hit him on the helm. “What was that for?” he mock whined, picking the thing up to look at it himself. “These weren’t  _ my _ idea!”

“I just said I was blaming Sunstreaker, didn’t I?” Ratchet said, perfectly innocent sounding. He picked his drink back up, noticing that the colors had started to run a bit together, and took a sip. “Mmm. I won’t blame him for this, though. This deserves credit.”

“What is it?”

“A dressed up Solar Sunset. You could probably ask Swerve to make one with just the midgrade and syrups,” Ratchet said, angling the glass so Drift could see the different colored “mountains” slowly settling to the bottom. 

“Maybe I will.” Drift looked down at his drink, which looked like the same energon tea he usually ordered apart from the unusual luminescence. “Not until I finish this one though. Don’t want it to go to waste.”

“We’ve got time. Assuming you don’t have to cover for him on the bridge,” Ratchet said, gesturing to the snoring captain. 

“Nope. Ultra Magnus decided he’s allergic to parties, and volunteered to take both our shifts.” Drift finally decided to tuck Ratchet’s flower next to the one he already had, covering the petal with the hole in it with the other’s petals. Then he sipped at his drink. “After we convinced him that a party was an absolutely necessary part of the process, of course.”

“Since the whole morale boosting aspect was something he was championing, I’m assuming that went more quickly than usual this time?” 

“Probably,” Drift chuckled. “I’ve never had that argument with him before, but I assume convincing  _ Ultra Magnus _ a party is necessary is usually impossible.” He took another a sip, and his thumb started rubbing gently over Ratchet’s hand.

“Not impossible, but close.” Ratchet didn’t discourage him. The simple touch felt really nice. “So did you just not get a chance to take that off, or are you hoping to inspire a fashion trend?” he asked, gesturing at the red and gold over Drift’s chest and shoulders. “Tailgate already wants one.”

“If Tailgate chooses a religion to follow, it’s not going to be Spectralism,” Drift said warmly. “The party’s part of the ceremony, and I’m still the attending sybil. I’ll keep it on until I leave.”

“Ah.” Ratchet supposed that made a sort of sense. “Then it goes back into wherever you’ve been hiding it until the lanterns come down?”

“You realize I only have the one footlocker of stuff, right? It’s not even entirely full.” 

“It’s not that big a footlocker,” Ratchet pointed out, still sipping slowly at his Solar Sunset. “That thing must fold up smaller than it looks like it does.”

Drift finished off his drink and set the cube aside, then gestured with his now-empty hand over the one in Ratchet’s, indicating a space only a little bit bigger than the cube he’d just put down. “My first one was bigger, and I had ten of them, but they… got lost.”

“…I’m sorry.” Ratchet squeezed his fingers around Drift’s. He hadn’t thought that one out very well. Time for an awkward and blatant change of subject. “You’re on Whirl’s shortcut list for slagposts?”

“All the Wreckers are.” Drift’s low laugh shivered up Ratchet’s spinal struts. “Anyone who hasn’t blocked his number on principle is going get thousands of them next time we pass a long range communications hub. Kup’ll get a kick out of them, at least.”

Ratchet laughed too, imagining Kup’s reaction. “He will. Then he’ll probably fire a few rounds back.” There probably weren’t all that many Wreckers who hadn’t blocked Whirl, though. It was a sad thought, until Ratchet remembered why  _ he _ currently had Whirl’s messages going straight to the virtual trash can. “Does Perceptor get them?”

“He does. You’re probably not on his shortcut list, but I’ve got both their snarky pings going back and forth.” A ping from Drift showed up on Ratchet’s HUD and he opened it, showing an excerpt of a “conversation” that seemed to consist entirely of lewd emojis and drawings and math — and not all of them from who Ratchet would have expected.

“I’m not sure which is harder to wrap my processor around,” he admitted, biting into the swizzle stick Swerve had put in his drink. Not bad, but it would have been better if he hadn’t let it sit and soak for so long. “Perceptor making lewd jokes is pretty out there, but Whirl using engineering memes is almost crazier.” Particularly since, of the ones Ratchet could understand, he was using them correctly.

Drift shrugged. “I never knew either of them any other way, so I can’t sympathize with this particular pain of yours.” He snickered. “Once I got past the collective ‘Wreckers’, Whirl and Perceptor were Whirl and Perceptor.”

“I’ve known Perceptor a lot longer than I’ve known Whirl.” Perceptor was actually someone Ratchet could look at and see the visible changes the war had wrought not just on his frame, but his personality and behavior, because he’d been there to see those changes as they’d happened. Not as intimately as some of his closer colleagues, certainly, but still. “Maybe that’s the difference. The idea of a friend having a broader sense of humor than I imagined is easier to accept than it is to adjust my mental image of someone I still barely know beyond his reputation.”

“I know how that goes,” Drift deliberately brushed his thumb over Ratchet’s hand again.

“Oh? You’ve had your whole image of someone upended in a single cycle? Because I don’t think I even know who Whirl is anymore.” He was exaggerating, of course, but Ratchet  _ was  _ having to seriously rethink a lot of his assumptions about the mech after everything Whirl had — and hadn’t — done today.

“Kup, Springer, Perceptor… Whirl. Like I said, the Wreckers were a lot different as individuals than what ‘Cons said about them as a group.” Drift snickered again. “Even your rep wasn’t exactly all-inclusive on the other side. I had a lot of assumptions upended when Kup said I could join up.”

“Ah.” And with the Wreckers, Drift wouldn’t have gotten a lot of time to deal with the disorientation. It couldn’t have been easy, but Ratchet was glad he’d done it. “Should I ask what assumptions you made about me that turned out to be wrong?”

“Abrasive, not afraid in a fight…” That sounded (unfortunately, in the second case) accurate. “Decepticons respect strength,” Drift said with a flicker in his field that told Ratchet he was moderating his words, “and there were plenty of stories about the mech who attacked and maimed General Firecharge in defense of a patient. You cauterized the myomer and damaged his neural system; he never walked without a limp or transformed again.”

“I had to attack plenty of mechs in defense of my patients. And of myself,” Ratchet added reflexively, before Ironhide’s voice in his head could yell at him for discounting his own safety. “I suppose a lasting injury like that would get talked about, though.” Even if Ratchet didn’t remember doing it, or the mech in question, at all.

“It took me a while to piece together that the fearsome Ratchet was The Medic from the Dead End, and I almost didn’t believe it when I did, but,” Drift shrugged. “By that point the war had been going on for a while, so I figured you must have changed, or just not been as nice as you seemed. That was pretty common on the streets, after all. I prefer the real you to the stories, though.”

“You thought I was  _ nice  _ back in the Dead End?” There were an awful lot of mechs, some of them still living, who would argue vehemently that wasn’t the case. 

“You didn’t call me a dirty siphonist and demand I give you a good frag or ten in exchange for your services,” Drift answered frankly, with a squeeze of his hand.

“Wh— of course I didn’t!” The very idea was disgusting, moreso because Ratchet knew there had been others doing “charity work” in the slums as a pretext for  _ exactly _ that sort of thing. “I was trying to help people, to make a difference, not take advantage of a broken system because I could.”

“I know,” Drift said softly. “You’re a good mech, Ratchet. But you asked about my assumptions — specifically ones that turned out to be wrong.” He bunted Ratchet’s shoulder, reaching out with his field to wrap him in  _ affection/respect. _ “You’re a good mech,” he repeated.

“The implication being you thought I wasn’t.” Based on Decepticon rumor-mongering and propaganda, which of course wouldn’t have been flattering to an enemy, even an enemy medic. Ratchet returned Drift’s affection with his own  _ affection/understanding.  _ “I’m not really surprised that’s the picture they put together of me and that it would have seemed incongruous.”

“So…” Drift drawled, field flickering in amusement. “When did threatening to kill your patients if they died become a thing? Y’know, since we’ve established that you  _ were _ nice back when you were running the clinic.”

“We’ve established I was nic _ er _ than others,” Ratchet corrected, refusing to unconditionally apply the word “nice” to himself. “And I started threatening to kill my patients after too many of them died on me.” It hadn’t stopped them from continuing to die, but it had helped put a necessary wall between him and the overwhelming feelings of guilt, loss, and failure he’d been battling alongside all the physical injuries. “If they had my voice in their heads, promising reconfiguration or worse for coming back full of holes or missing limbs, maybe a few of them would think twice before doing something reckless.” Like Ratchet heard Ironhide in his head, insisting he had to look after himself. He sighed, staring into the remains of his drink. All the colors had run together. “Maybe a few more of them would come back alive.”

“I’m sure more did,” Drift said with a pulse of  _ comfort. _ “Your angry faceplate definitely isn’t something I  _ like _ seeing.”

“Really. Is that why you keep annoying me with stuff like this then?” Ratchet gestured at the cape, the flowers, the room in general, then tossed back what was left in his glass. He’d much rather think about pointless religious rituals than pointless deaths. “Sometimes I have to wonder if you aren’t doing it on purpose,” he said with a wry smile.

“You’re not that angry — even if I am doing it on purpose. Besides,” Drift grinned wickedly, flicking one trailing edge of the red cloth with one hand, “if I wanted to annoy you, I’d tell you it’s called a  _ scapular, _ and start telling you  _ all _ about exactly why I chose to remake the red garment, instead of any of the others.”

“You would tell me, or you’re going to tell me?” Ratchet did his best to scowl, but the smile kept creeping back in. The energy in the room was just too good to stay truly angry or depressed; it was as good as being drunk, a state which he hadn’t made a whole lot of progress toward yet. “I think I need another drink if I’m going to put up with that,” he said, turning it into a joke. “Want me to get you one without engex while I’m at it?”

“Please.”

Swerve was in the process of turning up the music to encourage drunken swaying back and forth with a partner or group — it was too crowded for actual dancing — when Ratchet pushed his was back up to the bar.

“Hey Ratch! What’s the best way to get rid of a demon?” Swerve greeted as he came over. Several mechs on either side of him at the bar groaned or sniggered, telling Ratchet he wasn’t the first mech to hear this joke.

“I assume the answer isn’t something as practical as shooting it?” Ratchet said, familiar enough with Swerve’s bad jokes to guess there was a pun in there somewhere, but not interested enough to try figuring it out. “I need two more of those Solar Sunsets, one without the engex.”

“You  _ exorcise _ a lot. Get it?” Swerve laughed — along with those mechs at the bar drunk enough to still think it was funny — as he pulled out the ingredients to mix up the drinks. “So I’m guessing the Solar Sunstreaker’s a hit? Honest opinion, Ratch.”

“Honestly? It’s an improvement on the original,” Ratchet said, moving right past the joke. “The effect with the syrups doesn’t last, obviously, but they really add to the flavor.” About the only thing wrong with it was the ratio of engex to everything else being so low it would take a lot of them to really feel it. “Does he know about the name?”

“Sure. He came by to get another round for him and his menace earlier.” Swerve spun the swizzle stick once and plunked it into the first drink — Ratchet’s — before starting the second, with a flourish.

Good thing about that low engex content, if Sunstreaker was letting Bob drink them. “I’d say it’s definitely a hit then.”

“I’m thinking of doing a design your own drink night. Then add the best of the best of people’s creations to the menu permanently.” Ratchet didn’t recognize the ingredient Swerve was using for the lowest, red, layer of Drift’s version of the drink, but it was not-quite a color match for the engex in Ratchet’s cup. “Sound fun?”

It actually did. There were dozens of ways the drinks could go spectacularly wrong, naturally, but that would only add to everyone’s enjoyment, and one or two were bound to be good enough to be worth keeping around. “I’d stop by for that. Let me know if you decide to go ahead with it.”

“Will do!” Swerve placed Drift’s drink on the bar, then gave the swizzle stick an extra fancy twirl before depositing it into the cube. “Happy drinking!”

It was a little bit trickier navigating his way back through the crowd with two drinks, but Ratchet managed. He held Drift’s out to him first when he reached the table, then slid back into his seat and raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers?” Nevertheless, Drift did recognize a toast and clinked his glass with Ratchet’s before taking a sip. “Huh. That’s different.”

“Good different?”

“Not bad, at least. And that’s the part that’s kind of hard to get used to,” Drift grinned, showing off his fangs. “A little heavier on the flavorings than I’m used to in purified energon.”

“It is that, compared to your usual tea,” Ratchet agreed. “I won’t be offended if you don’t finish it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Of course Drift would finish it; starvation left its marks, even after so much time. Drift held out his hand. “So,” he said as Ratchet took it, “you wanted to know about the color red.” 

The fragger was laughing — silently, but he was. “I don’t remember that,” Ratchet said blandly, knowing it wouldn’t deter him. “You must be imagining things.”

“As you know,” Drift went on blithely, “a predominantly clear, bright red aura indicates someone who is grounded, realistic, active and survival oriented. Accordingly, red, in Spectralism, is symbolic of the life-affirming emotions. A will or desire to survive, a desire to create or protect life. Also a search for meaning in life. A cause one believes in. New life in general.”

“Making it a catch-all good color?” Ratchet summarized, trying to affect disinterest. “Mystery solved then.”

“But Ratchet,” Drift teased. “Don’t you want to know  _ all _ about Spectralist color theory?”

“I am nowhere near drunk enough to have said anything of the sort.” Even completely hammered, he never would have said anything of the sort. Only… Ratchet looked at Drift’s face, at those blue optics shining in the low light. If his religion viewed red as a good color, what did it say about blue?

“I’m hurt,” Drift said, still obviously teasing. He put his drink down, then lifted his hand to his spark, mock wounded. “Color is very important to Spectralism.”

Ratchet scoffed. “So you keep saying.” 

“Everything we see is color. Even spiritual sight manifests as color, a wealth of meaning in only a flash of light… and light — color — is Primus’ guidance.” Drift wasn’t  _ quite _ teasing now; he really believed what he was saying. This was usually the part where Ratchet’s prickly defenses hissed out  _ stop trying to convert me! _ But Drift… wasn’t. He was stating his own belief, not saying that Ratchet had to share it. He still wasn’t going to start asking questions though. Drift was just going to have to settle for a passive audience. 

When he didn’t get a response, Drift seemed content enough to let the topic drop. 

Sort of. “Red is a pretty significant color in most religions,” he went on, taking a step back from the declarations of divine guidance, “with a broad range of meanings, most of them related to vibrant energy and new life. Even violence and anger can be pure, life affirming emotions.”

“They can be, yes.” Ratchet was perfectly familiar with the cathartic effects of anger and violence in certain situations. “Though if violence and anger had a color, I would have expected it to be pink.”

“Why pink?” Drift chuckled.

“Because that’s the color of energon.”

“Ah. Makes sense. But a lot of early Cybertronian languages — you know, those of the,” Drift dropped his voice into a growl entirely too reminiscent or Ratchet’s, “superstitious heathens living in an era dominated by various absurd religions,” he smirked, letting his voice go back to normal, “didn’t have separate words for pink and red. There was only red. So when pink got added, it picked up a few symbolic meanings previously associated with red, but some things were too firmly associated with the deeper, richer color to budge. Pink, as a concept, is actually pretty recent. Cyclonus and Tailgate probably didn’t distinguish it from red very well, if at all, linguistically — that’s how recent.”

“It is?” Well that was an interesting notion, one that sounded like it might be more scientific, or at least, scientifically philosophical, than religious. “How did you come across that?”

Drift grimaced slightly.  _ “Adaptus Did Not Mark You A Slave, _ by Digress. It was one of his few works released for public download.”

“And not one I’ve read yet,” Ratchet said, unfamiliar with the title. “I’ll have to make a point of putting it next in my queue… once I finish slogging my way through my current attempt to broaden my horizons.” He’d resolved to finish Gleam’s works — or at least the one he was currently reading — even if the dead paramedic’s words were too religious, too Decepticon, and too  _ familiar _ for Ratchet to be entirely comfortable reading them. “Though I don’t think Gleam is going to be able to convince me that ritual use of certain substances is a good idea.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Drift answered offhandedly. “You’re not a believer, and those rituals aren’t universally practiced.”

“Well, that’s a relief. No matter how you frame it, using boosters is dangerous.” At least, in fairness to Gleam, he wasn’t advocating for frequent or heavy use of them. Ratchet still didn’t think it was a good idea, but he knew he didn’t need to explain why to Drift. “You said it was called  _ Adaptus Did Not Mark You A Slave?” _

“Yeah. Don’t pull it up here,” Drift warned, though Ratchet hadn’t moved to pull out the datapad. “That one’s a little… fiery. But in it… Digress talks about how language, in reference to color, has developed. Did you know red is the first color a newly forged mech can differentiate as separate from just light and dark? And the only one they do so on their own, without social prompting?”

“I did, actually.” It was always the first color to register in  _ any  _ bootup sequence, not just a mech’s initial one. Ratchet was used to seeing it in that position, though he’d never given much thought to  _ why  _ it was first. “I take it those ‘absurd religions’,” he said, mocking Drift’s impersonation of him, “made something of that fact.”

“How could they not? That view of color is reflected by Cybertronians as a species, if you trace the color words in our languages back. The further back in time you look, the fewer individual color words there are, until you find etched on truly ancient ruins only three color words: light, dark, and red. So really, when ‘light’ is the sun and ‘dark’ is the night and the only thing left is ‘red’, how could you not start attaching significance to it?”

“I’m sure I would have attached significance to it,” Ratchet was willing to accept, “but not of a mystical nature. Even if the ‘red’ back then was an umbrella term that included pink, it still would have been the color of energon, and that’s just a useful distinction to be able to make when our lives depend on the stuff.”

“So it is — hence red’s enduring association with,” Drift set aside his drink to brush his fingers up one of Ratchet’s arms, over the red paint, to rest his palm on the medic’s symbol on his shoulder, “life and death and all similar things.”

Ratchet didn’t want to think about the familiar symbolism having mystical origins. “Maybe I should change my colors,” he grumbled into his glass, taking a drink without quite dislodging Drift’s hand from his plating. “I could get used to a nice orange.”

“You’re certainly,” Drift lowered his voice to a sexy purr,  _ “insatiable _ enough to carry off an orange paint job.”

“Oh, really?” Ratchet’s voice was sarcastic, but he let his field turn playful. “That’s what orange means, does it?”

“Orange is also a later addition to our species’ color lexicon,” Drift murmured. “Like pink, it picked up a few of those meanings previously associated primarily with red. Specifically those related to confidence, creative power, and sexual appetites.”

“Sexual appetites, hmm?” Ratchet looked pointedly at his drink, then at Drift. “Are you suggesting I might be interested in something other than a refill when this is gone?”

Drift smirked. “You’re the one who suggested painting yourself orange,” he pointed out, without backing down or taking his hands off of Ratchet.

“Semantics,” Ratchet tossed back, appropriate given their discussion of language. Though speaking of orange and red… “We should do something about him first,” he said, glancing down at Rodimus’ sprawled form.

Now Drift did back down with a smile, then an equally fond look towards the captain. “Yeah. I’ll get him back to his quarters. My room or yours, after?”

“If I helped you,” Ratchet suggested, “we would both be right there by your room.”

“I wasn’t going to assume,” Drift said softly. He looked down at his drink. Despite his assertion of not liking it very much, he had been drinking it, and he quickly knocked back the final, syrupy sips. 

“As delicious as this is,” Ratchet finished his as well, “I’d rather savor you.”

“Sounds like a plan. Left or right?” Drift gestured to the unconscious captain.

“Left,” Ratchet said, leaving his glass on the table as he stood. He pinged Swerve to send him his current tab so he could settle it, then helped Drift get Rodimus to his feet. The figure Swerve sent over was a  _ little _ high, but then Ratchet hadn’t paid everything off since before that bender right after confronting Rodimus and Drift about Overlord, had he? Getting that drunk would kind of run up the bill.

Drift shifted the limp captain in his grip, then checked that he could draw his sword with his right hand — which, Ratchet realized, had been the reason he’d asked which side Ratchet wanted. Like Brainstorm’s gun and briefcase, they were a blatant disregard for the “No Guns, No Swords, No Briefcase” rule, but to be honest, that rule seemed more like an excuse to call security to deal with unruly patrons  _ before _ they started fights than something Swerve actually tried to enforce. Ratchet still had his gun; in subspace, granted, but he had it. 

Together they wove through the “dancing” crowd with Rodimus, running the gauntlet of goodbyes, blessings, and entreaties on their way out. The hall right outside Swerve’s was almost blindingly bright after the darkened bar, and it made Ratchet grateful he hadn’t drunk as much as he usually did. Adjusting his vision was much easier when only mildly impaired.

Ratchet refused to count the spark lanterns they passed on the way back to the captain’s habsuite, but he couldn’t help remarking on the one over Rodimus’ door. “Is there an extra LED in there, or did he just insist on the brightest one in the bunch?”

Drift laughed. “Both.” He keyed Rodimus’ door open without any hesitation and led Ratchet into the darkened room — which didn’t stay dark, as the lights came on at seventy percent of full brightness almost immediately. “We’ll just put him on the berth to finish recharging.”

“Let me.” Ratchet took Rodimus’ full weight and lifted him up to carry him the short distance to the berth in his arms. He made sure to lay him down in the middle so he wouldn’t be as likely to accidentally fall off, then stepped back. “Plug him in, or leave him?”

“Plug him in. He needs the power,” Drift stepped forward to do that, handling Rodimus’ primary cord with the same sort of detached fondness that in Ratchet’s experience was only to be found in very good friends or very soft-sparked nurses. His hands pulled back, then he paused. With a smirk, he held one finger against his lips to ask Ratchet for silence, then he pulled a stylus from his subspace… a stylus that was revealed to have an inkpen hidden beneath its tip.

Ratchet choked on a laugh, managing to stay quiet enough he didn’t wake the captain. Whatever Drift had in mind, Ratchet didn’t want to mess it up.

Carefully but quickly, Drift drew a thick line above Rodimus’ upper lip — a mustache — that curled upward at both ends. Then he drew a prominent, decorative mark on his chin, and finally connected the mustache on his upper lip with the chin-mark by a pair of thin lines on either side of his mouth.

Drift started to tremble with his own suppressed laughter as he pulled the marker away and capped it, examining his handiwork.

“Let’s go,” he said in a hush, a slight waver in his voice.  _ Let’s go before we both burst out laughing. _

Nodding his agreement, Ratchet led the way out of the room. They managed to get the door shut and across the hall before Ratchet couldn’t contain his giggles. “He’s going to think that’s hilarious when he wakes up,” he laughed.

“He’s not going to be sure if I did it, or if he did it to himself,” Drift giggled alongside him.

“And he’ll leave it there until he can figure it out!” Ratchet knew he would, because Rodimus would want to keep looking at it — especially once Ultra Magnus (tried to) order him to get rid of it. “We could blame Whirl.”

“Whirl wouldn’t have tucked him into bed. Or stopped with just a mustache. Nope,” Drift still shook with laughter. “I will definitely be taking the fall for that one once he figures out he doesn’t own any inkpens.” The prospect did not seem to worry him at all.

“Nice to know he knows you so well.” Drift could be such a troll when he wanted to be. “And it’s his own fault he doesn’t have any inkpens.”

Drift shrugged.  _ Laughter _ still bubbling through his field, he keyed his own door open and pulled Ratchet in. “He’ll get over it.”

Since he was likely to be more amused than upset, if he was even upset at all, Ratchet knew Drift was right. He smiled at Drift as the door closed behind him, letting that be his last thought about Rodimus before he firmly put the captain out of his head for the night in favor of the mech in front of him. “Now,” he said, running his hand up Drift’s arm to flick the fabric of his cape. “What were you saying earlier about the color orange?”

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	11. Chapter 11

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.

Whether it was the good “energy” from the exorcism or the prank on Rodimus (or both), Drift recharged soundly through his rest period for the first time since Theophany. Instead of waking Ratchet with some combat-honed reaction to a nightmare, or by calling out for Dai Atlas, or Axe (whoever he was), or Wing’s ghost, he was only briefly woken by Drift’s teeth on his shoulder armor while the the mech shuddered with that not-an-overload pleasure. Spiritual scrap or not, that was a measurably good outcome of the previous cycle’s craziness.

As a result, Ratchet found his tolerance for the dust collectors in his medbay continuing into his next shift. He kept the box of Sunstreaker’s foil trinkets next to the door and didn’t throw even a single one away.

In fact, everyone’s good mood was lingering. There were fewer scuffles between crewmembers, a change that meant fewer patients coming in for patches or fillers, and even those who did come in were less combative. The worst Ratchet had to deal with was the new, friendly rivalry among a group of mechs who’d started an impromptu game of some sort in the hanger during their off-shift. Whatever flavor of sportsball they’d come up with, it had ended when a knot of players collided with one of the parked M.A.R.B.s and gotten kicked out by a very grumpy Ultra Magnus. Turned out the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord was the only one  _ not  _ in a good mood. He even seemed personally offended by Rodimus’ new facial markings.

Rodimus, on the other hand, was practically bouncing with happiness. He hadn’t been one of the mechs to run into the M.A.R.B., but he had been part of the game, drawn-on mustache and all.

“I’ll wipe that face right off your face if you don’t stop tapping your feet,” Ratchet threatened from across the medbay, knowing Rodimus wasn’t ready to be rid of it. He needed him to be quiet though; he couldn’t tell if Lockstock’s wrist was articulating properly if he couldn’t listen for clicking in the joint.

“Noooo, don’t do that!” Rodimus pulled an exaggerated expression, then whipped out a portable communicator and snapped a picture of himself making it before pretending to twirl the end of his “mustache” and capturing that as well. Ratchet resisted the urge to sigh. Of course he was taking selfies with it.

“You’re not hurt. You don’t need to be here.” 

“Ultra Magnus said I should oversee everyone’s repairs so I could ‘think better of such reckless behavior in the future’,” Rodimus quoted, complete with a comical attempt at Ultra Magnus’ disapproving scowl.  _ Click!  _ Another selfie. “He wouldn’t even listen when I tried to tell him it wasn’t my idea. The game was already underway when I found out what everyone was up to.”

“And you, being the captain of the ship, decided the appropriate course of action at that point was…?” 

“Duh! To join in, of course!”

Now Ratchet did sigh. “You didn’t think that maybe,  _ maybe,  _ it would have been a good idea to find somewhere the game wouldn’t jeopardize the equipment in the hangar and relocate everyone instead?”

“Please, give me  _ some  _ credit! I gave permission to convert one of the larger storage rooms into a court.” Rodimus looked very proud of that particular decision. “But that’ll take awhile, and everyone wanted to keep playing.”

“We checked that we weren’t playing next to anything fragile,” Lockstock said, smiling despite the minor damage he’d sustained from Skater (currently enduring some good-natured ribbing from Flex and Borer on a nearby berth after having his dents popped) landing on top of him. “The M.A.R.B. was fine. Ultra Magnus didn’t have to come in and rain all over the parade.”

“Well, he did,” Ratchet said, finally satisfied he’d gotten all the debris out of Lockstock’s wrist. “You’re all set. Go start a new parade somewhere it can’t rain.”

“Oooh!” Rodimus somehow jumped up to stand, despite already being on his feet. “We can do an actual parade! Team parades!”

“Team colors!”

“Team practices!”

“Team… somethings,” Skater trailed off uncertainty.

“We’ll need at least three teams in order to do actual team rankings,” Lockstock pointed out.

“Done and done!” Rodimus grinned, still “twirling” his mustache. “The 4L is hereby officially founded!”

“The  _ what  _ now?” Ratchet said, gripping the edge of the nearest berth in an attempt to control his hands. 

“The Four-L: the  _ Lost Light _ Lob-ball League,” Rodimus beamed while the “players” currently in the room clapped.

Ratchet lost the battle. He hid his face behind his palm, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This has catastrophic physical injuries written all over it.”

“Pfft! It’ll be fine.”

“I can’t stop you.” Ratchet wasn’t even going to try. At least if everyone started playing this game, they might stop squabbling with each other whenever they got bored. Sports weren’t a bad outlet for excess energy, but, “Just make sure you include some rules and a referee to minimize the damage you all do to each other, alright?”

“Rules, referee… got it.” Rodimus snapped one more selfie of himself, then, “I’ve got to go tell Drift and Ultra Magnus!” he called as he breezed out the door.

The others looked at each other.

“Dibs on red,” Skater said, raising his hand.

“Nope! No choosing colors in here!” Ratchet hauled Lockstock to his feet. “Get out, all of you! You’re all perfectly healthy, so take this craziness somewhere else!”

“Someone got up o the wrong side of the recharge berth,” Flex catcalled. 

“I think Drift’s not putting out,” Borer snickered. “No  _ way _ I’d be that tense if I had a pretty speedster cranking my shaft.”

“Trouble in paradise, doc?” Skater heckled.

“OUT!”

Laughing and cackling, the four troublemakers scooted out of the medbay, grabbing a handful of foil things to wear on the way. The door closed behind them, cutting off their plans for their new, official, lob ball league. 

Ratchet sighed into his hand again as he scrubbed it over his face. He didn’t really care who talked about him and Drift, but he wasn’t about to put up with it right under his nose from that lot. They didn’t need the details, that Drift “put out” plenty and that Ratchet had woken up feeling better this cycle than he had the last several. They were more interested in sorting out the details of their new sports league anyway.

That interruption aside, Ratchet enjoyed a fairly light cycle. Mechs just weren’t inclined to hurt themselves this cycle outside of sports, apparently. Huffer had a complaint (Huffer always had a complaint, even when there was absolutely nothing wrong with him), and Inferno came in with a broken finger, which he wasn’t particularly interested in explaining. Other than that, Ratchet had time to send out follow-up memos and reminders to mechs who were overdue for their regular maintenance checks.

He saved the best for last.

“Hi Ratchet!” Rewind waved from the doorway. Chromedome was standing behind him, almost like he was trying to hide behind him. “You said you wanted to see us? Together?”

“I did. Come in,” Ratchet said, gesturing toward the consult room. “We’ll have more privacy in here,” he said for Chromedome’s benefit.

“Su~re,” Chromedome said slowly. “Privacy. Not just a checkup?” He let his smaller conjunx lead him into the room, but where Rewind picked a seat on one of the chairs immediately and hopped up onto it, Chromedome refused to settle. He didn’t  _ pace, _ but his “casual” pose — leaning against the wall with his arms crossed — was far from relaxed.

“Oh, it’s just a checkup,” Ratchet said, shutting the door and turning to face them both. “Specifically, a follow up, for all the times you’ve come in recently with tangled cords.”

“We don’t need a follow up for  _ that,”  _ Rewind said, as unflustered as Chromedome was embarrassed. “That sort of thing just happens sometimes. You can’t tell me  _ you’ve  _ never gotten your cords tangled before, and you’re a medic!”

“True.” Not with Drift — not with Drift’s cables, anyway, since he didn’t use them, though Ratchet had gotten his cords caught on his armor that one time — but Drift wasn’t the only partner Ratchet had ever had. Cord tangling occasionally happened. “But I don’t get them tangled with the same frequency or severity as you two have been lately.”

“So you’re going to lecture us,” Chromedome said with a twitch. “You do know we’ve both had the chips’n’bits talk, right?” Rewind put out his hand to rest it on his conjunx’s thigh. Chromedome looked down, tensing, then calmed slightly. He still didn’t look relaxed.

“Glad to hear it. Did you get the generic version, or one that was tailored to your circumstances?”

“Cords is cords,” Chromedome said with a tense shrug.

“For mechs who were constructed cold, yes. Not necessarily for those of us who were forged.” Ratchet looked at Chromedome and then Rewind, respectively. Hot spots sometimes predisposed a mech to “nonstandardized” equipment, whether they needed custom mods or not. Opt—Orion had had thick, fully armored and prehensile data caste datacords hidden in his torso, despite the fact that a heavy vehicle destined for police work had no need for such things. Ratchet himself had standardized datacords the same as any cold constructed mech; if he hadn’t been forged that way (he had), he’d been through enough low-budget rebuilds to ensure his frame had been stripped of such non-essential (for him) components long ago. “You’ve got a nonstandard configuration, right?”

“I’m a data slug, of course I have nonstandard cables. It makes me more compatible.” Rewind popped the panel on his arm and extended his cables. The individual cords twitched and twisted without any direction or purpose at first, then delicately wound together to form one larger connector. “Does that increase the chances we’ll get tangled? Yes. Is there anything we can do about it? No.”

“Didn’t know that was ‘nonstandard’,” Chromedome muttered. He kept his arms folded across his chest, hiding the panel over his cords from immediate view.

“Two mechs having different equipment isn’t a guarantee they’ll have problems interfacing,” Ratchet said. “Just like there’s no guarantee they  _ won’t  _ encounter difficulties, even with the same equipment. Cords tangle. It happens.”

“Then why are we here?” Rewind asked, spooling his cables back up.

“Because I’d be remiss if I didn’t make sure you weren’t doing anything that was increasing the likelihood of severe tangling.” Ratchet frowned. “There may be nothing you could or should be doing differently, but you’ve been in here multiple times over the last couple of decacycles with knots tight enough to do real damage. I would have thought you’d be interested in looking into ways to avoid that.”

Chromedome’s response was stony silence. Rewind put his hand back on his conjunx’s thigh and scooted closer to him. “Sure. We can do that, right, Domey?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.” Ratchet pulled up the summary he’d compiled from their visits and reviewed his notes. “Based on this, it looks like you don’t tend to wind your cables together, Rewind?”

“Not right away. Sometimes not at all. They’re not as sensitive when they’re all bunched together,” Rewind shrugged. “I like the foreplay.”

“And you already have your cables out when you’re playing with his, before you’re ready to plug in?” Ratchet asked Chromedome. It was safer to play with one set of cables at a time, unless the idea was to set up a two-way feedback loop, which kept both partner’s cords well away from each other. 

Chromedome glared at a middle distance on the floor between them, only speaking when Rewind poked him. “Not at first,” he huffed. “But I like —  _ really like _ — playing with his cords.” He held up one hand, letting the needles hidden there peek just barely out; not enough to actually function as memnosurgury tools, but obviously enough to provide some novel stimulation. That was all Ratchet needed to put together what was going on: Rewind liked the stimulation, and Chromedome either enjoyed the act or Rewind’s reactions or both enough that it ratcheted up his arousal to the point where the cover over his cords opened and they unspooled to start seeking out a connection all on their own.

“If your cords are engaging prematurely, that’s definitely something you can take steps to manage, without compromising your foreplay. It just requires a bit of fore _ thought.” _ Ratchet pulled up a couple of options on his datapad and passed it over to Chromedome. “There are limited duration scripts you can use to either delay extension or require conscious permissions for your panel to open. Or you can pop on an external secondary cover. Using your fingers on his cords puts your cords in such close proximity that they’ll entwine automatically, and neither of you have the kind of conscious control over them you’d need to make that anything other than a hazard.”

Chromedome looked about ready to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. Ratchet would be lying to himself to say he wasn’t enjoying this. He didn’t have anything in particular against either of them; he’d be enjoying this no matter who he was ~~torturing~~ informing, because it was such a delightfully  _ ordinary  _ thing to be doing! Not like fixing blaster shots or picking shrapnel out of someone’s torso, despite how frequent and normalized such injuries had become.

“Are those scripts something we’d need to get from you?” Rewind was much less embarrassed than his conjunx, to the point of just being straight up curious. “What if we want to try different ones?”

“I can give you a master copy of some basic ones now, and you can experiment on your own time. Chromedome knows enough to be able to tweak them and put together uploadable copies without medical supervision.” After all, Chromedome was technically his own medical supervision, at least when it came to programming. “As far as a physical barrier goes, you’d probably want to design something with a more custom fit and release for repeated use, but you can always use regular mag patches to experiment with.”

“That sounds good, doesn’t it Domey?”

“Sure.” Chromedome was obviously trying for casual and failing utterly as he handed the datapad back to Ratchet. “Do you have them ready now? Or should we come back later?” Translation:  _ can I leave now? _

“I can have them ready in a couple of kliks. You can wait and take them with you, or I’ll leave them with your name on them to pick up later.”

“We’ll wait,” Rewind said eagerly, before Chromedome could make good on the proffered escape.

“I’ll be right back then.” Ratchet left them waiting/hiding in the consult room and went into the office. He would have had a chip preloaded and ready to go if he’d known ahead of time what they’d need, but it wasn’t difficult to put together now. A few kliks later, he was able to return with the promised scripts and a couple of patches for good measure. “Here you go. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Ratchet!” Rewind sounded excited, while Chromedome simply accepted the new “toys” and subspaced them. He didn’t stomp out, but he didn’t look up to meet Ratchet’s optics either. “We’ll let you know how well they work!” Rewind said as he trotted out after his partner.

Ratchet chuckled. Rewind probably  _ would  _ tell him how it worked out, but Chromedome would probably just as soon never talk about his private sex life with him again.

“Should I be worried?” Ambulon asked as he came in later, seeing Ratchet in such a gleeful mood. 

“No,” Ratchet said, still smiling. At least he wasn’t rubbing his hands together and cackling maniacally! “Unless you don’t want to get dragged into lob ball. Then you might have something to worry about.”

“Someone putting together a game?” Ambulon sounded more curious than worried. “Maybe, if it’s not during my shift, I could play…”

“More than just a game. Rodimus is threatening a whole league.”

“Oh? Cool,” the other medic said with no hint of sarcasm. Then, thoughtfully, “You think Rewind would make posters of the players? First Aid gave me some when I first started at Delphi, but they got ruined.”

Ratchet blinked, surprised by Ambulon’s interest. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He’d probably think it was a great idea, though.” If First Aid didn’t suggest it first. Of course  _ he  _ was a fan.

“I suppose we’ll see where it goes then. Any pass ons?”

“Just the follow ups I didn’t get to,” Ratchet said, pinging him the list. “While I’m not looking forward to the influx of sports injuries, I have to admit it’ll be a nice change from laser blasts and bullet holes.”

“I probably need to read up on them, though.” Ambulon looked at the box of folded foils, which was lower than it had been when Ratchet came in, as more people had been taking them than coming in with them and leaving them behind. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually dealt with a sports injury.”

“Hmm. First Aid probably doesn’t have a lot of experience with them either,” and it had been awhile for Ratchet. He thought for a moment. “Put together a lesson to lead us through. I’ll have First Aid do one as well, and make one myself. We can all help each other brush up.”

“Will do.”

As Ratchet left the medbay, he checked who was currently on the bridge. Rodimus might think organizing a lob ball league was the Best Thing Ever, but that wasn’t the only important matter he was responsible for, and Ratchet wasn’t going to let the pleasant atmosphere on the ship make him forget about their unlisted passenger. Currently Drift was on the bridge. According to the schedule, Ultra Magnus would be replacing him as soon as their shifts changed, which meant Rodimus would be on wandering problem solving duty, and Drift on rest.

Not a bad arrangement. It would let Ratchet talk with both Rodimus and Drift without involving Ultra Magnus.

_ “Drift?” _

There was a pause, then,  _ “Yes, Ratchet?” _ Drift answered professionally.

_ “Would you mind extending your shift when you get off the bridge long enough for a brief meeting with me and Rodimus?” _

_ “You’re calling an officers’ meeting?” _ Drift sounded amused. _ “Conference room A?” _

_ “A limited officers’ meeting for a status update on a particular subject, yes.”  _ Even if Overlord’s status hadn’t actually changed.  _ “Conference room A is fine.” _

_ “We’ll be there.” _

Ratchet, of course, arrived first. There was still some time before the command shifts rolled over, and he spent the interval tapping out ideas for his lesson on sports injuries on a datapad. He put it away and looked up when the door opened. “Thanks for coming.”

Rodimus waved as he strutted inside. He still had the mustache and was still pretending to twirl it. Drift came in on his heels, not nearly as enthused about  _ his _ new mustache. “Hey Ratch. What’s up?” 

“We’ve had a lot going on lately,” Ratchet said, not bothering to hide his grin at the sight of Rodimus’ chosen retaliation. Drift with a mustache was an… interesting look. “I just wanted to take a moment to make sure certain things weren’t being neglected among all the distractions. I’m not expecting a decision this nanoklik or anything, but I did want to know: have either of you given any thought to what to do about Overlord?”

That rather effectively killed the jovial mood. Rodimus gave an explosive sigh as he flopped into one of the chairs. Drift drifted silently around to stand behind him, a tacit declaration of support. But now that Ratchet knew to look for it, he saw how Drift turned slightly away, an indication he didn’t necessarily agree with the captain. It was an interesting insight into their dynamic, and Ratchet tried not to let himself feel outnumbered.

“We can’t go back to Prowl empty-handed,” Rodimus declared after a moment. “I agreed to keep you in the loop though, so we will. You don’t have to worry about us doing something without you.”

“And what about me doing something? I’d be a lot more comfortable with his presence, since it’s unavoidable at this point, if you’d allow me to put him into medical stasis.”

“Can’t,” Rodimus said immediately, optics flicking over to Drift, who nodded. “Chromedome can’t do memnosurgury on him if he’s in stasis, right? Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong about that.”

Ratchet wished he could. “You’re not wrong.” The kind of stasis he wanted to put Overlord into was so deep it would significantly hinder any mnemosurgeon attempting to probe his processor, even one as skilled as Chromedome. And waking Overlord up from stasis later had as great a chance of setting him off as anything that might happen now while he was awake. “But Chromedome doesn’t even know you want him to do the procedure.”

“There hasn’t been a good chance to broach the subject yet,” Drift murmured.

“A chance where he won’t just outright reject it for the bad idea it is, you mean.” Ratchet fought to keep the fear and anger out of his voice, trying instead to reason with Rodimus. “You don’t want to turn up empty-handed, I get it. But you’re going to, whether you like it or not.”

“Nuh-uh. Chromedome’ll come around, we just need a little more time.” Rodimus’ smile would have been winning under any other circumstances. “In the meantime, Overlord’s not going anywhere, and if he so much as twitches wrong we’ll jettison the pod with his cell. Everything’s  _ fine.” _

Everything was  _ not  _ fine, but it wasn’t not-fine  _ enough _ that Ratchet could legitimately argue his captain’s decision. “I respectfully,” the word garnered a rather arch look from Drift, “disagree with you that time will make a difference, but I’ll leave time to make my case for me.”

“Sure, Ratch.” Rodimus was still smiling. He leaned forward, putting his hands flat on table between them. “We cool then?”

“For now,” Ratchet conceded. “Don’t let me keep you from your shift any longer.”

“You two have fun!” Rodimus crooned as he stood. “And just remember: if Mags catches you going at it in the conference room, you’ll both be on rivet duty for a decacycle, but  _ I _ won’t tell a single spark!”

Drift sent a fondly exasperated look — which looked  _ really _ odd with the mustache on him — at the door as it closed. Then he turned back to Ratchet. “You’re not ready to drop the topic, even temporarily,” he said. “I can see it in your aura.”

“I am ready to drop it,” Ratchet insisted, auras be damned. “Arguing with him won’t get me anywhere, so I’ll drop it. For now.”

“But you’re still angry about it.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m still angry. It’s a terrible idea and he’s too busy being stubborn to admit it. And you’re too busy being loyal.”  _ To an idiot,  _ he didn’t say, but he didn’t need to. There was no way Drift could miss the implication. “Why won’t you help me convince him? It’s bothering you, too.”

“He’s our captain,” Drift said firmly. He hadn’t moved out from his position behind Rodimus’ abandoned chair, though his posture was much more open than it had been while Rodimus was here. “And even if he’s stubborn, we need him as our captain.”

“I’m not asking you to stage a coup!” Ratchet didn’t share Drift’s bizarre insistence that Rodimus was the one and only captain for the  _ Lost Light,  _ but that wasn’t the issue here. “Him being the captain doesn’t make him infallible. He can be the captain  _ and  _ make stupid decisions. That’s  _ supposed  _ to be the reason for having other officers on the command staff: to help him when he’s being an idiot!”

“Agreed, but this decision is already  _ made _ and I’ve already argued with him about it as much as I am going to.” 

“The decision is half-made. Overlord is already on board, yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to go ahead with the rest of Prowl’s scheme. If you don’t think it’s a good idea,” and Ratchet  _ dared  _ Drift to say otherwise, “why aren’t you refusing to do it?”

“Refusing to— You think he  _ ordered _ me to take this on?” Drift sounded incredulous. “Rodimus is hardly the sort to order someone to do something he won’t do himself, but  _ I wouldn’t let him.” _

“You… what?” He’d already guessed Drift was the one doing all the actual legwork, but he’d assumed it was because Rodimus had told him to. Ratchet floundered, trying to make sense of the new information. “Why?”

“Because that’s my part of Prowl’s dumb plan: to take the blame if something goes catastrophically wrong.” Drift kicked one of the chairs out from under the table and turned it sideways before flopping into it — a feat of skill with that Great Sword hanging off his back. “You didn’t think Prowl included me because he  _ liked _ me, did you?”

“Prowl doesn’t  _ like  _ anyone.” But Drift had a point. Prowl didn’t involve people in his plans without deliberate, thought out reasons, especially recently-converted ex-Decepticons. Who, due to that very history, would make awfully convenient scapegoats. “I hadn’t thought about why you were involved beyond the impossibility of Rodimus doing something like this without you,” Ratchet said, “but… you’re saying Prowl actually brought you in as a contingency plan?”

“Rodimus doesn’t know that part,” Drift said softly. “I figured it out after Prowl presented his plan, calling both of us to talk together. But that’s why I’m doing this: because Rodimus isn’t changing his mind, and if something goes wrong,  _ I’m _ expendable and he is not.”

“You are  _ not  _ expendable,” Ratchet growled, angry at Prowl for even implying it, let alone forcing Drift to act like it. “You shouldn’t have to take the fall like that.”

“I will anyway.”

“Damn it, Drift!” Ratchet’s hands had already balled into fists; now he brought one down hard on the table as he got to his feet. Drift just watched him calmly, with an expression that said he was ready to  _ move _ if Ratchet escalated things. Not that that was Ratchet’s intent. He was somewhat startled by the strength of his own outburst, in fact. He just didn’t understand. Rodimus and Drift were friends, sure, but Drift would be sacrificing  _ everything  _ to protect him — everything he’d worked to make of his life after the Decepticons. “What could possibly be so important you’d do something like that?”

“The quest,” Drift almost whispered. His field reached out to brush Ratchet with his  _ sincerity. _ “The Knights of Cybertron… Ratchet, there  _ is _ no quest without Rodimus. Everyone else can come and go, but without Rodimus it’s nothing but fire and ashes.”

Ratchet deflated, falling back into his chair. He wouldn’t be able to budge Drift when it came to his faith, and he knew it. “…Prowl knows you feel that way,” he said after a quiet moment. “Doesn’t he?”

Drift leaned forward to fold his arms on the table, forcibly relaxing. “I don’t see how. I’ve not told anyone else, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“He has to. At the very least, he was certain enough you’d do anything to protect Rodimus that he planned around it.” It was underhanded, manipulative, and distasteful… and there was nothing Ratchet could do about it. He looked across the table at Drift and instead of seeing the sword on his back he saw one hovering over his head. “You said Rodimus doesn’t know. Why haven’t you told him?”

“Because then he’ll forbid me from doing it, and if he’s the one who approaches Chromedome and fails to convince him, Rewind will know, and if Rewind knows…” Drift’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Are you going to tell him?”

Ratchet wanted to. Drift obviously expected him to. “No.” 

Drift’s optics widened in surprise. Ratchet braced himself for the question of  _ why, _ but instead all he said was, “Thanks, Ratchet.”

“He’s waiting for you to find the right way to approach Chromedome,” Ratchet shrugged. “I can wait for you to find the right moment to tell Rodimus the whole plan and convince him to give it up.” They still had time, and it wasn’t worth hurting Drift to force the issue just to save a few decacycles. “I am actually capable of respecting some decisions, even when I don’t like them.”

“Still, thank you.” Drift smiled softly,  _ affection _ coloring his field.

Ratchet smiled back, feeling surprisingly tender… then his gaze slid down from Drift’s optics to the thick, black lines on his face. He tried, and failed, to swallow a laugh, resulting in a rather comical noise somewhere between a snort and a giggle. Drift’s consequent  _ quizzical/concerned _ look broke the last of Ratchet’s control and he burst out in giggles. Between snickers, Ratchet managed to gesture to his own mouth, which made Drift’s optics widen with realization and after a moment he joined the laughter.

“Can I offer to help wash that off?” Ratchet asked once he’d regained a little composure. “Fetching as that look is on you, it is a bit crooked.”

“Please,” Drift managed between his own giggles. “He ambushed me in a closet.”

Ratchet stood and walked around the table and held out his hand to Drift. “Come on then. I’ve got just the thing.”

Drift let Ratchet pull him up. Somehow he ended up with an armful of speedster. “Lead on.”

They didn’t actually go anywhere right away though. Ratchet was perfectly happy to let Drift nuzzle against his plating, engine idling contentedly. It gave him the opportunity to hold him and pet his helm finials the way Drift liked so much… at least until Drift looked up at him with dimmed, pleased optics and Ratchet saw that ridiculous mustache again. His plating shook with suppressed laughter. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but really, Rodimus had picked the perfect revenge for the prank.

“Okay, fine,” Drift said with a mock pout. “Let’s go clean it off.” He disentangled them, but kept hold of Ratchet’s hand. “Lead on for real.”

Absolutely everyone they passed stared at them. Most of the looks were focused on Drift’s face, but enough mechs ogled their joined hands that Ratchet figured he’d be hearing about it later (in the form of updated odds, at the very least). It didn’t stop him from keeping their fingers linked all the way back to the medbay.

Ambulon took one look at their joined hands, their completely uninjured frames, and Drift’s new facial marking, and made himself scarce without a word.

“Did you want to do anything after we take care of that?” Ratchet asked, letting go at last to retrieve a cloth and some solvent to wipe away the ink.

“There was a favor I’d like to call in,” Drift said, a little hesitantly. “You said you trusted me to specify something later.”

“So I did.” Ratchet gestured Drift to sit on one of the berths and, once he did, dabbed gently at his mustache. “You’ve decided what a fair trade would be?”

“I want you to go on a date with me,” he answered in a rush.

“A date?” Not what Ratchet had been expecting. “What kind of date?”

“Rewind’s showing something called  _ Under The Tuscan Sun _ for movie night,” Drift expanded shyly. “That’s supposed to be a romantic movie. Then, maybe, Swerve’s, for spark-gazing, before going back to one of our quarters?” He smiled, tentatively.

Ah. He wanted a  _ romantic  _ date together, where others would see them as a couple. “We~ell,” Ratchet said, pretending to think about it as he rubbed a little harder to get rid of a stubborn bit of ink. “I do owe you.” He grinned. “Sounds like we have a date.”

Drift’s smile turned brilliant, and his field fluttered happily against Ratchet’s. “We do.”

Ratchet finished wiping away the ridiculous mustache, then quickly put the solvent away. “Off to movie night then. How long until it starts?”

Drift’s optics flickered — probably checking the time — “Soon. We can probably sneak into a couple of seats in the back.” He looked pleased at the prospect.

“Why would you want to be at the back?” Wouldn’t that make it harder to see the movie?

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on a date to the movies? Sit in the back and make out?”

Right; the movie wasn’t the point. It had been a while — even before the war — since Ratchet had been on this sort of date. “Then let’s go make sure we get two spots right next to each other as far back as possible.”

This time Drift led, pulling Ratchet by their joined hands as he bounced his way to the ship’s exhibition hall. As he had predicted, the lights were already dimmed and the seats were crowded, though the movie hadn’t started yet. They slid into two eats in the very last row — Drift turning his sideways to accommodate the Great Sword — just before the projector lit up.

Ratchet settled in to watch the movie, splitting his attention between the film and the mech beside him. Drift had already taken his hand again, and it wasn’t long before Ratchet felt the edge of a foot bumping his.

He smiled and bumped back.

Drift watched more of the movie than he’d indicated he might. Maybe it was because the main character was a writer. Or because the movie was different than what he thought a “romantic” movie should be, and was therefore less interested in making out during it. Rewind had Cybertronian subtitles broadcasting on a short range, open channel, translating the movie for anyone who didn’t have the Earth language packs installed, and explaining some of the more bizarre practices depicted. Like divorce. Undergoing the Rite of Separation with one’s conjunx endura was a little extreme for an interfacing indiscretion. Nevertheless, the main character’s journey to reestablish herself and reclaim her ability to love was something almost all of those watching found compelling, and Rewind’s subtitles kept them all from getting lost in the various Earth-specific metaphors and symbolism. Even those who had spent a significant amount of time there had a hard time keeping up with things like individual flower meanings and why a broken faucet was significant.

Somewhere in the middle of “buyer’s remorse”, Drift migrated from his own chair to halfway onto Ratchet’s. Ratchet found his arms wrapped around the speedster for balance, and at some point started running his fingers down the seam at the center of Drift’s chest armor.

Frag half measures. Ratchet’s smirk was the only warning Drift had before he was pulled fully into Ratchet’s lap.

“Is this the part of the movie where I’m supposed to ‘make out’ with you?” Ratchet whispered, less than an inch from Drift’s audio.

“Mmmm-hmm,” Drift hummed and his engine revved encouragingly. 

One of the mechs in front of them — Strafe — turned to glare briefly at them. They weren’t even making all that much noise yet! Ratchet just stared him down until he turned away. He wasn’t going to be all  _ that  _ disruptive, but he also wasn’t about to stop. Drift had asked him for a date, and he was going to deliver.

If Drift couldn’t keep quiet, that was his problem.

.

.

.

Apparently they needed a bonfire. Open flames of that size were both hard to come by and dangerous on a ship like this (though Ratchet heard that Brainstorm had had to be forbidden from making a “bonfire gun”), so they’d tracked down a nearby star experiencing high amounts of solar flare activity as a substitute. That meant mechs were stuffing themselves into any corner of the ship they thought might have a view.

No way was Ratchet going to cram himself onto the ship’s observation deck, which had been standing room only since last shift and had only gotten more crowded in the joors leading up to the ceremony. And he  _ certainly _ wasn’t going to try and claim a space in the cargo bay itself! That’s where Drift, Rodimus, and the others actually involved in completing the exorcism were.

Ratchet was  _ not _ curious. Nope. Not at all.

So, in the spirit of  _ not being curious, _ he decided that watching Rewind’s broadcast in the exhibition hall was more than good enough. He didn’t need a first hand view of a solar flare!

“Hey!” Smokescreen spotted him almost as soon as he came in. “Fancy seeing you here! The odds were on you hiding out until the ceremony was over.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Ratchet said, not sorry in the slightest. “There’s already nothing to do in the medbay. Ambulon didn’t want me around stealing all the busywork.”

Smokescreen snorted. “Don’t worry about it. I get my cut either way, and the few who bet you’d be curious enough to come watch just won a lot of money.”

“I’m not curious.” Clearly Smokescreen didn’t believe that, going by his expression. “I’m not,” Ratchet said again anyway, then gave up and tried to change the subject. “Who won the pool on me and Drift?”

“Perceptor and Whirl,” Smokescreen shrugged. “For one of the least socially competent mechs on the ship, Perceptor’s pretty spot on most of the time.”

“What he lacks in social acuity he makes up for in math.” And good sources. “I wonder what he spends all his winnings on.”

“Porn?”

Ratchet snorted. “I suppose it’s possible.” If that was what he was buying, he did a good job hiding it. “As long as it isn’t something that could blow us all up or transport us to the Dead Universe or someplace equally unpleasant,” which was almost certainly what Brainstorm would use excess funds for. 

“Agreed,” Smokescreen laughed. “So…” he trailed off, sidling closer to Ratchet. “Dating, huh? How’s that going?”

“It’s…” Ratchet paused, searching for a way to describe it. “Unfamiliar.” Not bad, but even before the war,  _ dating _ had taken up time he didn’t have. His priorities had been elsewhere.

“Well, movies are a good start, or so I’m told,” Smokescreen grinned. “I liked scary movies, myself, as a young and idealistic thing, and Polyhexian psychological horror didn’t get a lot of potential partners into the mood. You know what you’re doing for your second date?”

“Depends whether that happens on the ship or if we get a chance to go on shore leave together.” Ratchet didn’t usually care to spend much time off the ship recreationally — missions were different, they didn’t count — but their options for activities onboard were fairly limited. “I wouldn’t mind another movie, and there’s always Swerve’s, but as far as something more original goes? That’s a work in progress.” 

“True. No wonder everyone’s always getting in trouble on this ship! We need more leisure activities that don’t include drinking and gambling. I’m  _ all _ for drinking and gambling,” Smokescreen said quickly, “but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“No, it’s their cup of engex. But I see your point. As far as I’m concerned, that’s been the best part of this whole exorcism: it’s given people something nondestructive to focus on.”

“True enough!” Whatever Smokescreen was going to say next was preempted by the lights dimming and the chatting, excited crowd going quiet. Ratchet saw Sunstreaker and Bob standing with Flex, Borer, and Skater, among others, as he turned his attention to the screen.

The projector flickered on, the image immediately centered on Drift standing gracefully in his cape thing — sorry,  _ scapular _ — next to Rodimus and Cyclonus. All three of them held a single spark-lantern in their hands, while around them the rest flickered in piles, waiting. Rewind zoomed out, and Ratchet saw the crowd of people in the cargo bay, also waiting. Ultra Magnus was, once again, not present, but Red Alert stood close at hand with a similar stern expression and officious demeanor.

“Ready, Drift?” Rewind asked, the audio coming out more clearly than even the best microphone should be able to pick up in the din of so many mechs all in one place. They must have already depressurized the cargo bay, and were speaking over broadcasted comms.

“Ready,” Drift answered without moving his lips.

“It’s starting!” someone whispered beside him. Ratchet took a seat, bracing himself for the ceremonial drivel he knew was coming next. He wasn’t about to tell Smokescreen, but he actually knew what Drift was going to say. He’d read a version of this ritual written down by Gleam just last cycle so he’d have something to focus on now. Comparing the two versions would be academic enough, and would give him something he could say to Drift later that wasn’t entirely unkind or dismissive.

Ratchet wasn’t surprised when Drift opened up with a general prayer. “We pray to Primus and all the Guiding Hand to lead us on our journey. As we fly through the darkness between stars, we ask for your guidance. We ask for your wisdom, for your strength and power to be constantly with us. We pray you will make us strong and courageous for the road ahead. Give us the ability beyond what we feel capable. Let your gifts flow freely through us, so that you may be honored by our lives.”

Word for word, this part was exactly the same as Ratchet had seen, not just in Gleam’s writings, but other places as well. Not Functionalism-dominated spaces, no, but older places, like the Senate building and the Central Academy of Learning in Iacon. Those places more focused on Primus than Adaptus tended to have similar words inscribed somewhere on them. Except for the fact that there was absolutely no way he  _ would, _ Ratchet  _ could  _ have recited it along with Drift.

“Help us be known as great givers, help us look to the needs of others and not be consumed by only our own. Shine your light in us, through us, over us. May we make a difference in this galaxy.”

Behind Drift, Ratchet could see Rodimus nodding on the screen. Several of the in-person onlookers were indicating their affirmation via body language as well, though it was impossible to tell what emotion Whirl was trying to convey with his clacking claws. Probably eagerness over the impending destruction of the lanterns rather than any sort of piety, if Ratchet had to guess. 

Finished with the general prayer, Drift raised his arms, optics locked on the lantern in his hands. “We have gathered and trapped the evils that plague this ship. Here are our demons: the spells and witchcraft and black magic that entrance us.” Rodimus lifted his lantern. “The hatreds and pettiness and fears that hold us back from Primus’ Light.” Cyclonus lifted his. “All that is evil and sinful has been, with the help of our gods, gathered here.” As one, all three of them turned away from the crowd to face the void of space. “Now in Primus’ name and sight, we banish them, so that we can be healthy and do good in this galaxy.”

One by one, Drift, Rodimus, and Cyclonus gently lofted their lanterns out the open bay door. They traveled in gradual, artificial gravity-influenced arcs until they left the ship to float, weightless, in the vacuum of space. Slowly, the camera zoomed in to focus on the lanterns, glowing softly against the backdrop of stars beyond the shields.

A shudder ran through the ship, and several mechs cried out. The camera fritzed for a nanoklik, then stabilized just in time to catch the three sparks engulfed in a blaze of stellar fire. The LEDs inside popped, exploding and shredding the foil as it curled and blackened, the scraps burning away utterly.

A cheer went through the auditorium crowd as the camera zoomed out again.

On a signal Ratchet could neither see nor hear, the spectators in the cargo bay — Whirl first among them, but also First Aid, Red Alert, Fortress Maximus, Tailgate, and others — and the three “priests” all gathered up the remaining spark lanterns from the piles and threw them into the solar flare currently engulfing the ship. 

Each spark burned brightly as it was engulfed, turning the view into a kaleidoscope of fire and flicker-flashes as they were turned to ash and stardust.

It really did feel like a burden lifted off Ratchet’s shoulders as the  _ Lost Light _ rid itself of evil and reaffirmed for itself what was good. Or maybe that was just the overwhelming buzz of hope and other such feelings from the EM fields of the crowd around him.

Pervasive good mood aside though, Ratchet really  _ was _ in a good mood himself. He had noted several places where Drift had deviated from the strictly Spectralist version Gleam had recorded, mostly in that he’d kept it short. Also more general, focusing on invocations of Primus and the Guiding Hand with a general list of “evils” he was casting out, instead of going through the spectrum of colors and invoking their good qualities as gifts either to or from the gods before symbolically casting out the bad qualities of those same colors. The different approach did make it more accessible to the crew, and the payoff was a higher level of engagement from everyone — even Ratchet.

“I can’t tell,” Smokescreen said, having turned to watch him instead of the projection at some point. “Are you amused or annoyed?” 

“Neither. I’m… intrigued.” 

“Intrigued, huh?” For a moment, Smokescreen looked intrigued himself, in a way that reminded Ratchet that he was  _ technically _ part of Rung’s department, but then he let it go. “It was pretty neat. And now, it’s party time.”

“It is that,” Ratchet agreed. There were already streamers flying through the air (some being chased by a very excited Bob) and a great deal of cheerful high-fiving, back-slapping, and hugging going on. No high grade though; at least, not here. Not  _ yet.  _ Swerve’s, as the only  _ official  _ place such was allowed, would once again be hosting a special event in honor of the ceremony, but only a fraction of those celebrating would fit in the bar. Ratchet fully expected someone to try sneaking something past the regulations into at least one of the other main gathering areas before the cycle was over.

It would give him something to do afterward, at least, when all the hangovers came calling. 

There was a commotion toward the front of the hall. Ammo had been trailing a streamer for Bob to pounce, and the insecticon had apparently decided to pounce  _ him  _ in order to steal it, much to several mechs’ delight. “Ultra Magnus will have a fit over all this confetti,” Ratchet chuckled, watching as bits of foil and flimsy wound up kicked under seats and draped over the projection equipment.

“Mags isn’t here.” Smokescreen snatched a streamer from the air as it fell. He waved it around for a bit, then sent it back up to join those bits still raining down. “And that’s what punishment details are for.”

“True. And he is going to need something other than rivet duty until we’re clear of the solar flares.” Whatever, it wasn’t Ratchet’s problem. Mechs would have their fun, then clean it up, then clean it up  _ again _ every time they torqued off Ultra Magnus for the next two quartexes. “Want to go find Rung and First Aid and celebrate, or do you have shanix to distribute first?”

“I can pay everyone next cycle. I’ll go find mine and you go find yours?”

“Deal.” Not caring that he was wearing some of the streamers — or that he was tracking them into the hall — Ratchet set off to invite First Aid to join them at Swerve’s. And Whirl. The two were a bundled package right now, unless Whirl took it upon himself to frag off. Strangely enough, Ratchet found himself hoping he wouldn’t. Whirl was an acquired taste, but he was an interesting mech to get drunk with.

Ratchet found them by wading up the tide of mechs leaving the cargo bay. He didn’t see Drift or Rodimus, but he did finally spot First Aid, hefted up onto Whirl’s spindly shoulders and giggling as he had to duck to fit through the doors.

“Hello,” Ratchet waved, carefully standing to the side so he wouldn’t get kicked. “Did you two already have a destination in mind, or would you like to join me and a couple of others for drinks at Swerve’s?”

Whirl tilted his head, narrowing his optic as though wondering if Ratchet was serious, but First Aid tweaked an antenna gently to get him to look back up. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“Pfft,” Whirl shrugged. “Sure. Let’s go.”

First Aid beamed.

“Smokescreen’s off looking for Rung,” Ratchet said as they set off, still keeping enough distance to avoid being accidentally hit by a flailing limb. “Hopefully they’ll have staked out a table. Something tells me the place is going to be crowded.”

“Well if someone needs to move, we’ll move them,” Whirl announced cheerfully. 

There was that. Though, the way mechs tended to move out of Whirl’s way, they probably wouldn’t even need to ask before a table cleared for them. 

Fortunately for not having to call security tonight, Smokescreen stood up and waved from a booth as soon as they walked in. He and Rung already had five drinks out on the table in front of them. “We had Swerve bring whatever he thinks your favorites are,” he announced. “Hi, Whirl. We thought you’d still be with First Aid when Ratch found him. Come sit!”

There was a slight hitch in Whirl’s step at the warm reception, but then he was swaggering confidently up to the table like nothing had happened. “Budge up then! I need room to set this down!” He didn’t actually lift First Aid off his shoulders so much as hold a claw up so First Aid could make a controlled slide to the ground, but he did shove the junior medic into the seat beside Smokescreen before (miraculously) folding himself down next to him, effectively trapping him at the table. First Aid didn’t seem bothered by it, and happily shuffled the drinks in front of them so Whirl had his usual toxic sludge, and Ratchet found himself in possession of a Solar Sunstreaker when he slid in on Rung’s other side.

“I think I’ll have something stronger for round two,” Ratchet said, raising the drink in a short salute of thanks, “but I have developed a liking for these.”

“Sounds like a good toast for the first round,” Rung said, raising his own glass. Ratchet didn’t recognize his drink, but he could tell it was stronger than his usual tea. “To Solar Sunstreakers!”

“Mountain Crystal Engex!” Smokescreen announced, raising his own glass.

“Bubble Up!” First Aid giggled.

“Nasty Pink Sizzle!” Whirl didn’t lift his glass, but he did nudge it on the table, making the straw swirl around the rim.

“Cheers.” With that, Ratchet took a long, satisfying drink, and the others followed suit. It was as good as Ratchet remembered. “So where were you watching from?” he asked Rung. “Smokescreen and I didn’t see you in the exhibit hall.”

“Oh, I was one of those who camped out last cycle for a spot on the observation deck.” Rung sipped his drink, then traded with Smokescreen to try a sip of his. Smokescreen tried Rung’s too, then refused to give it back while the psychiatrist pouted briefly. “We had a screen set up to show the ceremony, then watched the spark lanterns burn up through the window. Pretty exciting.”

“Everyone in the hall was certainly excited about it.” 

“Confetti?”

“Sooo much confetti,” Smokescreen confirmed.

“Like this confetti?” Whirl asked, producing a pair of what looked like grenades with the glyphs  _ Reserved for Springer _ scrawled sloppily on them. “Cuz I got confetti!” 

“Please tell me those are filled  _ with  _ confetti, not for making  _ us  _ into confetti,” Ratchet said suspiciously. 

Whirl cackled.

“Can we get the confetti out without setting them off?” First Aid asked, not nearly as suspicious as Ratchet thought he should be. “You’re a big, tough helicopter, but I don’t think we want everyone to shoot us out of habit.”

“But that’s half the fun!”

“Rung will cry,” Smokescreen said, leaning forward to poke at one of the grenades. 

“I won—” 

Rung abruptly shut up mid-sentence. Smokescreen beamed at him, then turned his most charming smile on Whirl. “But confetti sounds like a  _ great _ idea. So why don’t you show us how to crack those things open without setting them off?”

Whirl looked back and forth between Smokescreen’s charming grin and First Aid’s excited smile (he still didn’t have a mouth and Ratchet still didn’t know how he managed it), then set the grenades down in the middle of the table. “Prolly should. I don’t remember if I made these to throw at Springer or mix in with his ammo.” Either of which would have annoyed his fellow Wrecker, but the latter could have gotten others killed if they’d actually needed  _ real  _ grenades. Ratchet bit his tongue and took another drink, leaning back slightly in the process. It was a moot point now. All that mattered was just how explosive these had the potential to be. 

He was reminded strongly of times when Wheeljack had gotten things mixed up and asked him to stand by while he sorted them out.

“Finish up, Ratch.” Whirl pulled out an ominous looking little black box. “I need your cup.”

“For what?” Curious (and not interested in watching Whirl disarm a party grenade while sober), Ratchet knocked back the rest of his drink with the ease of long practice and handed the empty glass over. “Here.”

Whirl didn’t answer; instead he plopped the first grenade down into the cup. It fit perfectly, keeping the thing from rolling or tipping, while he pulled out a tiny pair of tools from what turned out to be a harmless toolkit. With more dexterity than Ratchet had thought his claws capable of, he proceeded to set them into a groove next to the detonator button. Using the side of the cup, as well as his claws, he pried up the panel. He leaned in close, and Ratchet heard the mechanisms in his optic adjust to examine the mess of wires inside. From the toolkit, a pair of snippers appeared, and again Whirl used the side of the cup as a sort of third hand to stabilize himself while he snipped one, then two, of the wires. Then, with a triumphant cackle, he reached in and pulled out the thing’s disarmed payload. “Little boom!”

Ratchet shook himself from his trance and realized he wasn’t the only one at this table mesmerized by Whirl’s show of finesse.

“That was fantastic!” First Aid praised. “Do the other one!”

“Ratch and I could probably disarm a standard explosive,” Smokescreen agreed, “but not a custom one like that.”

“Can you do that with one you didn’t build as well?” Rung asked.

“Eh,” Whirl shrugged. He subspaced the payload and plunked the body of the grenade in front of First Aid, who poured out the confetti inside with delight. “Sometimes. And when I can’t, I’m pretty hard to kill.” He put the other one in the glass to work on.

“You’re also pretty hard to repair sometimes,” Ratchet said, this time leaning forward so he could see better. “You should try to avoid blowing yourself up once in a while so we,” he pointed at himself and First Aid, “don’t have to worry as much.” 

“Pfft,” Whirl dismissed the concern. “Nag, nag, nag… You here to nag me or drink?”

“Drink, but I seem to be all out of engex.” No one else had finished their drinks yet, but Ratchet still offered. “Any requests before I go get a refill?”

“If Smokescreen isn’t going to return mine, I would appreciate a replacement,” Rung said with a small smile.

“You could finish that one,” Smokescreen indicated the glass he’d started with, still sitting between him and Rung.

“No, thank you.”

Ratchet nodded. “What about you two?” he asked First Aid and Whirl, who were both busy with the grenades and had barely touched their drinks.

First Aid clutched his Bubble Up — a clear drink with pink “bubbles” of engex floating in it and clinging to the sides of the tall flute — possessively. “I’m good.”

“I’ll stick with the Nasty Pink swill,” Whirl said distractedly; he was in the middle of carefully prying the panel up to get at the wires beneath. “But you can get me another for when this one’s gone.”

Ratchet lingered to watch a little bit more, but soon got to his feet and went over to the bar. Swerve and Skids were both busy behind the counter, mixing and chatting happily with everyone. Skids spotted Ratchet first, and came over to get his order. “On round two already?”

“Some of us are. I don’t think anyone plans to keep up a breakneck pace though, except maybe Whirl.” For his own part, Ratchet was looking to walk the line between buzzed enough for a good time and too drunk to walk home. Good mood, good atmosphere, good company; he wanted to be here for a while, enjoying them all.

“A spiked Crystal Spice Float for Rung, Nasty Pink for Whirl… and you?” Skids started pulling out cups and ingredients. “Another Solar Sunstreaker?”

“Cesium Sour this time, thanks.”

“Coming right up!” Skids pulled out a glass Ratchet had always thought to be oddly shaped until he’d been to Earth and seen drinks served in “hurricane” glasses — the shapes were similar — and the other ingredients for Ratchet’s drink to go along with the others’. “Did you watch the ceremony?”

“I saw the movie version,” Ratchet admitted. He hadn’t seen Skids in the footage. “I’m guessing you were on the observation deck?”

“With Rung, yeah. We had to get there super early, but it was completely worth it.” There weren’t too many fancy moves involved in making the three drinks, but what frills there were Skids performed with precision. “Need a tray to get these all back to the table?”

“Sure.” He probably could have managed without, but better safe than sorry given the crowd. “Thanks.”

“No problem! Your happiness is our business here at Swerve’s.” Skids grinned as he passed the tray over the counter.

Ratchet spotted Drift in the doorway just as he took their drinks. He was standing there with a hand over his optics, laughing, while Rodimus took Rewind for a spin on the dance floor. Their optics locked when he moved his hand away, and Drift waved, but didn’t interrupt whatever conversation he was having with Rodimus to join Ratchet. Ratchet juggled the tray with one arm long enough to wave back, but didn’t go over to join him either. He had a table to get back to.

Whirl had finished disarming the second grenade by the time Ratchet returned, and the empty glass he’d been using to accomplish the task was now full of the combined confetti from both explosives. There were stragglers scattered across the table, and there were also a liberal number of colorful flecks clinging to First Aid’s paint.

“What’s the plan for the rest of it?” Ratchet asked, sitting back down and distributing the new drinks.

Giggling, First Aid gathered up a small handful and threw it at Ratchet.

“…of course,” Ratchet said as it settled. “Why did I even ask?” 

Whirl cackled, while Smokescreen leaned forward eagerly. “Are you going to take that from your own  _ apprentice?” _

“Oh, I’ll have to think of a way to retaliate — one that  _ doesn’t  _ involve confetti, since he’s clearly not bothered by it,” Ratchet chuckled. He wouldn’t be surprised if First Aid had been the one to decorate himself. An unprompted low-priority ping from Whirl confirmed it: the message contained a pair of skewed camera-shots, one of First Aid dipping one of the confetti bits in his drink to get it sticky and the second of him sticking it to his own plating. Rung snorted in laughter, though Smokescreen didn’t react at all. Yet, anyway. It wouldn’t be long before Whirl added him to his shortcut list.

A response from the not-present Ambulon simply said,  _ Not surprised. _

Smokescreen and Rung both eyed the confetti in the cup, then each other. They both dove for the cup at the same time. “Food fight!” Whirl yelled, even though the confetti was completely inedible. He pulsed the fans in his arms above his claws, propelling the stuff across and beyond their table as soon as Smokescreen and Rung threw their first handfuls. Ratchet had just enough time to cover his drink to keep the little bits from falling into it, then went ahead and reached with his free hand for the confetti to chuck a handful at First Aid anyway.

First Aid squealed and threw a handful back, though none of the confetti was hitting its intended targets anymore. Whirl’s rotors turned the air into a glittering kaleidoscope of the colored bits. It wasn’t long before the cries of protest from those beyond the medics’ table who’d gotten hit with it turned to shouts of glee. A nanoklik later, everyone nearby was involved somehow, tossing confetti at whoever was nearest, scooping handfuls off the floor to throw again, or just smiling and laughing as it rained down around them.

It was a lot of fun. Over the happy din, Ratchet thought he could hear Swerve saying he wished he’d thought of that, and he suspected the bar would soon have its own confetti-cannons in the not too distant future. For now he just did his part, gathering up the flakes whenever enough fell around him to toss back into the air — mostly just  _ up, _ but he did take the opportunity to dump a handful over Rung at one point.

Ratchet was happy and pleasantly buzzed in a way that had nothing to do with engex when the five of them collapsed back into their seats (Whirl sprawling  _ somehow _ half onto First Aid’s lap) and let other tables continue the confetti war. Rung shook several bits from his armor and Smokescreen copied him. “That was… invigorating.”

“A surprisingly good idea,” Ratchet agreed, actually  _ glad  _ Whirl had had the things. The fact that his drink had wound up with a couple of pieces of confetti in it after all (he’d gotten too carried away to continue protecting it) didn’t bother him in the slightest. He spent a moment fishing them out with a swizzle stick. “Are you even going to be able to drink yours?” he asked First Aid, whose glass was significantly more colorful now than it had been when they’d started. Whirl’s two drinks were just straight up gone, though Ratchet hadn’t seen him actually consume them.  _ Maybe  _ it wasn’t a coincidence that Ratchet now had a queue of pings as long as his arm, which he’d been ignoring during the confetti fight itself.

“I have a filter on my intake,” First Aid said, dismissing the concern.

“Well I don’t,” Smokescreen complained, still smiling as he contemplated the problem of his own confetti-filled cup. “Pass me that empty one, would you?” Ratchet pushed it across the table to him and he cleared it of foil flecks before carefully transferring his drink into it, attempting to block the confetti from flowing with the engex with his finger. It mostly worked, succeeding enough to get the number of flecks down to a level he could reasonably deal with by hand the way Ratchet was doing.

“We’ll be able to tell who was at which party by what kind of confetti we have to pick out of their joints later,” Ratchet commented. “This stuff will probably be more persistent than the streamers in the exhibit hall.”

“There were streamers in the exhibit hall?” First Aid managed to have starry optics  _ without differentiated optics. _ How?!

Whirl’s contribution was a close up of someone someone’s cables he’d quickly drawn colored streamers tangled up in. Rung snorted, and Smokescreen, still not on the shortcut list, gave him a concerned look.

“I’m not sure who brought them in, but they were everywhere when we left,” Ratchet said,  _ not  _ commenting on Whirl’s hasty artwork. “Bob was having a fantastic time with them.”

“Bob is kind of adorable,” First Aid commented; this time Whirl snorted, but didn’t respond when First Aid gave  _ him _ a concerned look.

“What Whirl means to say,” Rung input calmly, “is that while Bob might be ‘adorable’, it’s not surprising it’s taking some of the crew a while to warm up to him. The Swarm was devastating.”

“Nope. Not talking about the Swarm right now. Now is the time for drinking and other fun stuff. Bob is adorable. The rest is ancient history.” Smokescreen finally got the last of the confetti out of his drink and stood. “Round three? This time without drinking confetti.”

“Gimme!” “Please!” “Yes, thank you.”

Smokescreen managed to climb around-slash-over Whirl and First Aid to escape the booth, and Whirl pushed First Aid into Smokescreen’s former spot and spread out to take up all available space on their side of the table.

“And where is Smokescreen supposed to sit when he gets back?”

“With Eyebrows.”

“With me?” Rung looked at the space he was currently occupying. “That’s going to be a tight fit.”

“I’ll steal a barstool if I have to,” Ratchet promised.

Smokescreen took longer to come back than Ratchet had when he’d fetched drinks, and when he returned he took a look at the new seating arrangements and just sighed, grabbing a barstool for himself (leaving a currently wildly gesturing Trailcutter with no place to sit) from the next table over. “So Rung,” he said, “do you remember a book where at the start of the story a mysterious briefcase is introduced, and despite the narrator hyping it up, it’s never revealed what’s inside? Skids and Brainstorm were debating it but Skids can’t remember what the title is, and Brainstorm’s never read it…” He shrugged, taking a healthy swallow of his drink. “You’re the biggest book nerd on this ship, so I thought I’d ask.”

“That’s not a lot to go on,” Rung said, but he was clearly thinking it over seriously. “Did Skids remember the names of any of the characters, or where and when it was set?”

“No. It’s gotta be pre-war though, right?” Smokescreen glanced at Whirl, and his optics widened: the third pink drink was already mostly gone and Whirl was using the rest, distributed among all three cups, to balance them on their edges, much to First Aid’s amusement. Smokescreen shook his head and continued. “There hasn’t exactly been a lot of literature written since.”

“Not a lot, no, but not none. Still, pre-war is more likely. Hmm…” 

Ratchet didn’t say anything, but the conversation had him thinking about the collection of writings Drift had given him. Not because he thought the story Skids was looking for would be among the entries, but still. A large percentage of it was early war, not pre-war, and some of it came from even later. There had, in fact, been quite a lot of literature written since things had gone to slag, and the majority of Autobots probably had no idea it even existed.

“Well if it was a horror story, it was probably  _ Shadows in the Mirror,” _ Rung said thoughtfully. Whirl sent a ping that proved he was still listening: a picture of some alien struggling as shadowy tentacles reached out of a nearby mirror to grab it. This time even Smokescreen reacted, nodding along with Rung. “Yes, exactly. Given some of the particulars, the author did a good job of predicting the existence of the Dead Universe, though he called it something else. I remember a briefcase featuring very prominently. I’d have to dig out a copy — I’m not sure from where, honestly — to check though.”

“You mean you don’t have a collection of stories like your collection of model ships?” First Aid was still watching Whirl’s balancing act, but he sounded very interested. “You always have little stories or anecdotes for things, I thought you must have them all stored somewhere.”

“I do,” Rung said brightly. About as bright as his optics, which were over-bright from the engex he had been drinking. “But it’s hardly extensive. I didn’t manage to save a copy of everything I’ve ever read.” There was difference between having the memory of reading something, and storing a copy of the text on one’s hard drive. The first was filed and indexed with tags that connected it with other memories. In addition to the memory becoming blurry over time, those tags meant details could leak into closely associated memories, like those of discussing the book in question. “Storing a copy is generally immune to degradation,” Rung continued, “unless there’s processor trauma, but it wasn’t a common practice until the war was well underway.”

“And by that point, keeping an externally stored copy safe wasn’t exactly easy,” Ratchet said. Things got lost, left behind, stolen, turned to shrapnel… “We’ve probably lost more than we’ll ever realize.”

“We might still have more than we realize too,” Smokescreen said, emphasizing his point with his glass (which, if it had been more than half full, would have splashed). “Just, scattered among everyone who’s managed to survive and keep one or two datapads intact.”

“I have a copy of  _ Clockwork Criminal,” _ Whirl announced, unexpectedly inserting himself back into the verbal conversation. “Not that anyone cares.”

“I care,” First Aid said, predictably enough.

“So do I,” said Ratchet, which  _ did  _ surprise the rest of the table. “No, really. That’s great. You don’t know, that could be the only copy of that story on the whole ship.” For all he knew (and taking into account what he knew of Whirl’s tastes) it was a trashy, violence-soaked porn rag, but what it was didn’t really matter; Whirl had cared enough about it to save it. Forget the  _ ship. _ There was a chance it could be the only copy left in  _ existence. _

Whirl’s optic brightened and he perked up. “Yeah? You wanna read it? You can’t have  _ my _ copy, but I can duplicate it.”

“I want to read it,” First Aid said, before anyone else could say yes or no.

“I would be interested as well,” Rung concurred.

“Why don’t we all read it? Then we can get together again and talk about it, like a book club! It’s a human thing,” Smokescreen explained, before those who hadn’t spent much time on Earth could ask. “A group of them would decide on a book to read in a set time frame, then they’d all say what they thought — what they liked, what they didn’t, whether they thought the book was worth the paper it was printed on… not that I think we should debate whether or not something was worth saving, but we could talk about whether the author knew what they were doing or if they were just an amateur.”

“Sounds good,” Ratchet found himself saying, though it wasn’t the sort of thing he usually thought of as his thing. Besides, he was curious about just what Whirl  _ had  _ thought worth saving for four million vorns.

Whirl’s optic focused and refocused on all of them, making little whirring noises, like he couldn’t quite believe they were accepting his idea so readily. “Whatever. I’ll make a copy for you geeks next cycle.”

First Aid squealed and managed to launch himself at Whirl for a hug, despite sitting  _ right next _ to him. First Aid, Ratchet thought, staring at his empty cup, did lots of mysterious things.

“You know,” Rung said thoughtfully, optics somehow even brighter as his field buzzed with excitement and engex, “perhaps we could also start a common repository for such things, and ask everyone on the ship to contribute any materials they might have so others can have access to them. Surely the  _ Lost Light  _ has the resources for, for… a  _ library,  _ of sorts.”

“Frame the request the right way, and I can guarantee all three commanders will approve it.” Even without careful phrasing, Ratchet knew Drift would support the idea, though he’d probably feel he couldn’t safely contribute to it. That’s where they’d need to be careful, because while Ulta Magnus wasn’t likely to object to a centralized bank of knowledge, he would have strict ideas about what was allowed to be stored in it, as the Autobot Code contained several rules against sedition and dissemination of enemy propaganda. And Rodimus just wouldn’t think it was important, unless it was put to him the right way.

“A task to be undertaken when we’re less drunk,” Smokescreen said, raising his glass and downing the remainder. “Who’s up for round four?”

“Me.” Ratchet waved his empty glass, and First Aid peeked over his shoulder from where he was still perched in Whirl’s lap with an eager, “Me too!”

“Three!”

“Four,” Rung agreed with a smile.

The drinks blurred together more and more from that point on, blurring the conversation as well. There were more jokes, more ideas for fun — for a liberal definition of the word — things for the crew to do after all the partying was over, and definitely more engex.

Somehow, Ambulon replaced First Aid at the table. He may or may not have been on Whirl’s lap, but Ratchet couldn’t tell because there were two of him.

It was an absolutely wonderful time. Relaxed, happy, and wonderful. 

Ratchet really hoped they would have a chance to get used to this.

.

.

.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!

.

.

.

Ratchet was far too used to this. At least they’d known the battle was coming, and prepared the medbay in advance for the influx of injured, but still. How had things managed to get off on such a bad foot already? And speaking of feet, “Any idea where the rest of you wound up?” he asked the first mech rolling in off the evac shuttle. Ambulon had clamped the largest energon lines at his hips and shoulder where his limbs had been blown away, but must not have had time to do anything else because he was somehow still conscious.

“N-no idea,” he gasped, stammering in shock and pain. “C-could be anyw-where.”

“And in any number of pieces.” Right, then. Reconstructing limbs would have to come later, but right now Ratchet could and would stabilize and sedate the poor fragger. His usual upload port was gone along with his arm, but there was no damage to the port on the back of his neck, and Ratchet went ahead and plugged in to get a complete readout directly from his self repair while he administered a few quick pain blocks.

“A-am I g-g-going t-to—”

“You’ll live,” Ratchet interrupted, giving the electronic equivalent of a shoulder pat while his hands were busy cauterizing leaks. “You’re going to be unconscious for awhile, but you’ll be back on your feet soon enough.”

“W-when I have f-feet ag-g-gain.” 

“Yeah.” Sure now that sedating him wouldn’t result in any problems with his processor down the line, Ratchet went ahead and manually sent him down into stasis. It was much easier to work on someone who didn’t keep moving and talking.

“Ratchet, I’ve got a lot of shrapnel over here,” First Aid called out, voice pitched to carry but calm. “When you get a moment, I could use another pair of hands.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ratchet replied, though a quick look up at the next stretcher told him he’d need to see to a different patient next. Headshots were important to assess fast; they either wound up being very critical, very quickly, or could be safely put at the bottom of the triage list if they had successfully self-stabilized.

Two patients in controlled stasis and another lying on the full body scanner under pain blocks so he could find out just how many broken struts he was dealing with later, Ratchet went to check on First Aid. “Still need help with this?”

“Not if someone more urgent comes in,” First Aid answered, not looking up from the microwelder he was using to seal off torn lines beneath pitted armor. “There was a lot of bleeding but I’ve got the volume loss under control.” 

Under control wasn’t the same as stopped, but Ratchet wasn’t going to argue. He trusted First Aid’s assessment. “Let me know if that changes,” he said, already moving on.

“I will. Hoist is going to need replacement nanites, by the way. His nanite storage was damaged, but I had to take care of his cooling system first.”

“Got it.” Ratchet stopped beside Hoist, glancing at his chart: ripped left shoulder, damage to self repair nanite storage, broken armor and struts on the left causing damage to the surrounding myomer, damaged cooling system. That was going to be unpleasant to recover from, but recover he would.

Patients and injuries started to blur together as they continued to roll in. Ratchet fell into the familiar pattern that combined a certain level of awareness for his surroundings and changes in supposedly stable mechs’ conditions with a sort of tunnel vision that enabled him to work quickly and efficiently on whatever came under his hands. There was a double amputation of barely attached legs (he kept the legs to assess them for reattachment later), a temporary bypass for compromised waste systems, and crush injuries that he only had time to pop out the worst of while the non-threatening dents got to linger. Someone had gotten their foot twisted around so badly that Ratchet just immobilized it where it was, after confirming it wouldn’t grey out, then let out a blistering string of curses when the next mech proved not to have a single easily accessible port anywhere on his frame.

“What do you need?”

“Something to pry this panelling off!” The mech had clear spinal damage (which had rendered those ports useless) and Ratchet needed to stop him from thrashing about and making it worse. Already his lower legs weren’t working, both knee actuators either too badly damaged or not getting any signals to allow them to move.

“Here.” 

Ratchet took the pry bar that appeared in his peripheral vision, then looked up at what sounded like a muffled expletive. “What—”

“Severe energon loss, just started bleeding again,” First Aid answered. “I’ve got it. I’ve got it.” Ratchet attacked the warped armor covering what he sincerely hoped was a functioning port on his patient’s arm, because any nanoklik now he expected to hear— “I need help!”

Ratchet’s patient cried out in pain as his armor bent backward, then sighed as the hastily jammed-in data slug successfully uploaded a pain block. “Don’t. Move!” Ratchet ordered him, dropping the pry bar to help First Aid find the source of the rapidly pooling energon at his feet.

Together they successfully stabilized him, but there was no word that the battle was over yet. The only update Ratchet had in his queue from the field was that there was another evac shuttle on the way, full of fresh casualties for them to triage and treat.

Another headshot, fortunately without accompanying processor damage but also not accompanied by all four limbs. More crush injuries, this time involving the knee and hip joints to the point of needing full joint reconstruction. That one started bleeding out on the table as well, but Ratchet managed to get it under control without pulling First Aid from the half-a-mech he was busy stabilizing: his patient’s left leg, left arm, and much of his left torso were just gone.

A monitor beeped in an alarm, drawing Ratchet over to where Pipes, who had appeared to be fine save for being unconscious and missing the lower half of his right arm, was suddenly going into spark failure. “We need to move him!” 

“I can’t,” First Aid apologized, not leaving his patient. “Not until I get his life cord insulated. There’s too many shorts, I can’t leave the neural circuitry exposed.”

“When you can then.” Instead of trying to move Pipes on his own, Ratchet dragged over the mobile scanner Ambulon had miraculously managed to restore to its original configuration. He needed to see inside his chassis — was he dealing with a chamber breach, or was there internal bleeding starving his spark of fuel?

The scanner beeped, displaying a tangle of lines, tubes and cables, several of which were torn and leaking. Bleeding it was.

“Sweet Primus!” 

Ratchet looked up at First Aid’s exclamation and saw the other medic rushing over to a faceless Swerve.  _ How  _ had he managed to burn away his features down to his cranial casing without any other visible injuries?

Setting aside the mystery for when he had the luxury of time, Ratchet focused on cutting open a temporary access patch in Pipes’ torso, removing the armor blocking him from doing the repairs needed to keep his spark from guttering. An electrode fed through to his spark chamber helped provide energy while Ratchet worked to restore the regular fuel supply. He worried he would need to crack the chest completely and establish full spark support when the readouts continued to wobble and fluctuate, but after several touch-and-go kliks, he got him turned around.

“How bad?” First Aid asked, appearing at his shoulder.

“Bad enough, but getting better.” Ratchet handed the electrode over to him, and First Aid was able to get it into a better position. Pipes’ spark stabilized further. “Jack in and reroute his self repair to deal with these coolant leaks while I fix the fuel lines.”

“Got it.” First Aid made an unhappy sound as he connected. “There’s a lot of internal damage all over, not just around his spark chamber.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that happens when you fall a long way and land on something hard.”

“Lovely.” That meant lots of microtears and a high likelihood of complications from overactive self repair struggling to deal with the widespread myomer injuries. “Let’s stabilize him, transfer him to one of the critical care berths, and put a timer on him to check for things going wrong before the monitors go off.”

First Aid stayed with him up to moving Pipes onto a monitored berth, but left Ratchet to finish hooking him up to it while he did a spot check of everyone else’s status. When he didn’t come back, Ratchet figured someone must have managed to burst a patch or a clamp. 

It was bizarrely quiet for a brief moment, the two of them working in silence surrounded by sedated or stasis-locked patients. Except for the beeping of monitors and the soft metal-on-metal sounds of repairs, there was nothing else to hear.

It was the calm before the storm, naturally.

The next wave of patients made themselves known from all the way down the hall. Spoke, in particular, was crying out in severe pain, and that had Ratchet going to him first while First Aid assessed the others. “Blockers not working?”

“Not administered,” Spoke gasped, then shouted. “Please! Ambulon couldn’t find a port but this is— aaaahh!”

Not deaf to his pain, but unmoved by his suffering (as he had to be at times like this), Ratchet took stock of the massive number of injuries Spoke had acquired. Several were minor — nonlethal shrapnel in the left arm, dents and scrapes on the right — but others were more serious. His right knee and lower leg were pretty chewed up, and Ratchet didn’t trust the location of some of those bullet holes. There was no way he didn’t have fuel pooling inside him somewhere, compressing wires and cables and contributing to his pain. 

“Please, Ratch, please!  _ Do _ something!”

“I am,” Ratchet said, trying and failing to find a port that wasn’t sparking or warped too badly to use. “Don’t move around so much, you’re torn up inside and you’ll only make it worse.”

“I  _ can’t,  _ it  _ hurts!”  _ Spoke shuddered, his engine groaning alongside his vocalizer. “Please…” His optics and biolights dimmed and flickered.  _ Slag.  _ Systemic electrical problems on top of mounting fuel loss was a bad combination. “Ratch… et?”

Correction:  _ massive  _ fuel loss, if he was starting to lose consciousness. “Your fuel levels are dropping rapidly,” Ratchet said, physically holding and strapping him down to stop him from thrashing around. “I need to operate. Now.” Spoke gave him a desperate look. “It’s going to hurt.” 

Grim determination spread across his face. With a low, pained whine, Spoke nodded. 

“I’ll establish internal access as quickly as possible,” Ratchet promised, flicking on the energy blade of his laser cutter. Spoke would probably pass out before he was actually able to sedate him, but it wouldn’t help him to hear that. “I’m starting.”

Luckily for everyone, Spoke’s screams didn’t last long. Unable to handle the influx of agonizing sensory data, his processor tripped over into a soft reboot at the same time Ratchet finished cutting his way to a hub he could actually connect to. He plugged in, turning the reboot into a controlled shutdown while he took a closer look at what he was dealing with.

Double, triple, and quadruple  _ slag.  _ “Can you bring me an energon infuser?” Ratchet called out.

“Ish. Heads up!”

He looked up just in time to catch the infuser stand First Aid had shoved in his direction before it continued past him. “Thanks.” 

“Is he going to be okay?” someone asked, and Ratchet left it up to First Aid to answer them. He needed to get Spoke’s main energon line fixed and replenish his volume  _ now _ , or he absolutely wouldn’t be okay.

Later, Ratchet would be impressed by just how much, and how well, First Aid handled himself during the crisis. He didn’t notice in the moment how many more patients came in, all injured to the point of being pulled off the field for immediate medical attention, but First Aid took care of almost all of them single-handedly. The only one he interrupted Ratchet for was Lockstock.

“Behind you,” he said, wheeling over one of the mobile berths. Lockstock lay unconscious on it, his left collar strut and left torso gone (along with the arm). That damage, as well as the damage to his right knee and right arm, had already been patched, but, “I did what I could, but he’s got a processor injury I don’t know how to fix. I’ve tried to slow the rate the errors keep coming up, but I couldn’t stop them. Can you do anything for him?”

“If he can last another klik on his own while I finish here,” Ratchet said, hands still buried beneath Spoke’s plating. The electrical surges were finally under control, but there were too many lines still only clamped for him to pull out just yet. “Everyone else—”

“—is mostly alright, though we’ve got one last critical case coming in. I’ll take it.”

“Just the one?”

“The battle’s winding down,” First Aid explained. “Not quite over yet, but almost.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Ratchet cautioned, but he allowed himself to hope, just a little, as First Aid walked away to meet what might be their last seriously injured patient. He refused to say it out loud, but he couldn’t help thinking that, despite a few close calls, they might have actually avoided any fatalities.

Lockstock did hold on until Ratchet finished with Spoke, but Ratchet was glad he’d worked quickly. His processor hadn’t shut down properly when he’d gone into stasis, and was now generating a growing log of errors and directives that would all try to execute at once when he rebooted.  _ That  _ would cause a full-on crash if it was left to happen, so Ratchet’s first order of business was to find a way to turn everything off without triggering a reboot — not the easiest thing to do when Lockstock’s systems were compromised and not responding correctly to medical overrides. No wonder First Aid had been struggling.

Coding issues weren’t something Ratchet was able to do well while multitasking. He dove into the error logs, focusing on the stream of data to the exclusion of everything around him. It shouldn’t take too long; he just needed to get things to a point where Lockstock wouldn’t deteriorate further. Then he could bring First Aid in and walk him through dealing with something like this when they weren’t likely to be called away for another patient.

In the end, after taking over and externally managing several priority trees, Ratchet was able to open enough of Lockstock’s remaining bandwidth for the medical overrides to go through. His processor stopped trying to execute commands or restart, instead cycling down into true, full stasis. Ratchet pulled back but didn’t disconnect right away, continuing to monitor him while he got him hooked up to life support and made sure the physical damage to his head was shielded against debris with a temporary cover. There was no point in putting on a permanent patch, since they would need access to finish his repairs. 

There was someone standing nearby, watching, when he finished up. Ratchet didn’t acknowledge his next patient right away, taking the time to carefully extricate himself from Lockstock’s systems so he didn’t accidentally upset anything after all that work first. When he turned, spooling his cables back up, he was somewhat surprised to find it was Drift waiting for him. “The battle’s over then, I take it?” he guessed, not seeing any serious injuries. There was a patch on his leg and several scorch marks across his chassis, but he was conscious and ambulatory.

“Ambulon’s doing triage on the prisoners,” Drift confirmed. “You should have an ETA on the most critical in your inbox. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Sure enough, the ETA and a few other important updates were right there in his queue when Ratchet checked. There was still some time before the last shuttle was due to arrive, and First Aid wasn’t calling for immediate help, so Ratchet went ahead and asked, “Then why are you here?”

“Rewind’s dying.” A fist clenched at his side belied how not-really-calm Drift was, but he kept his voice steady, cold even. “We promised to keep you in the loop, and I won’t,” his voice cracked and he looked away. Ratchet watched him go through one of his micro meditations before starting again. “I won’t break that promise.”

It took a couple of nanokliks to process anything past “Rewind’s dying”. The last critical case that had come in… “Don’t go anywhere,” he told Drift, looking around for First Aid. “I need to see— First Aid?”

“Over here,” came the response, but the other medic wasn’t standing over Rewind. “There was a bomb. Turns out Cyclonus got caught in the same blast with Rewind,” he explained when Ratchet joined him at the purple mech’s side. “I’d say it’s a good thing he did or Rewind would already be gone, but I don’t know that it’s going to make a difference.”

Ratchet followed First Aid’s pointed finger and saw Chromedome joining Tailgate beside another berth. The monitors attached to Rewind showed his spark was fading. “What have you tried?” Ratchet asked, pinging his chart for the details.

“All the standard treatments, but they haven’t had any effect.” First Aid finished the patch he was working on, then set his tools down. “There is one experimental thing I want to try, now that Chromedome is here to discuss it with.”

“That jumpstart procedure you developed?”

“Yeah.” First Aid paused, waiting for Ratchet to object. He didn’t. “I can bring it up as an option then?”

“He’s your patient. Just make sure Chromedome knows it’s not a guarantee.” It was better than doing nothing, and there was nothing else left to try. Ratchet reviewed the chart one more time to be sure, but couldn’t think of anything First Aid hadn’t already done. “I can finish here.”

“Thanks. He’s unconscious from the blast, but the only real damage is external. He’s got good armor.” 

Despite the gravity of the situation, there was a faint air of anticipation about First Aid as he left to talk to Chromedome. Ratchet couldn’t really blame him; the chance to try an experimental procedure was exciting, in a way, even when it meant someone was dying. He sighed, looking down at Cyclonus. The worst of his injuries were all on his back, arms, and legs. He’d been shielding Rewind… 

Drift drifted over, looking down at Cyclonus with concern. “Is he stable?”

“He is.” Cyclonus was a warrior. He could bear the brunt of a bomb detonating at close range and be no worse for wear than a prolonged reset and surface damage. “Rewind isn’t. First Aid has an idea that might work, but if it doesn’t, there’s nothing more we can do.” 

“I hope it works.”

“So do I.” Ratchet turned to Drift, replaying what he’d said before. “You mentioned keeping me in the loop. Does that mean what I think it means?”

“If you think it means I’ve seen an opportunity to talk to Chromedome, then yes,” Drift answered softly. “It’s horrible and it  _ sucks, _ but I’m quite sure the mastermind doesn’t give a flying frag how we all feel about it.”

“It’s wrong,” Ratchet said simply. “It’s wrong, and I object.”

Drift’s gaze softened. “You know how I feel about it.” Yes. Drift hated it as much as Ratchet did, but his loyalty to Rodimus was overriding his common sense. He would go through with it, regardless of his own feelings. “I’ll hold off as long as I can. You have until Rewind wakes up to make that objection stick.”

Ratchet frowned. There was no way to make it stick without involving the captain and convincing  _ him  _ that this was a horrible idea. “Where’s Rodimus?”

“His office.”

“Then we’re going to his office.” Ratchet sent a quick ping to let First Aid know where he was going, then spun on his heel and started off down the hall.

Drift trailed after him like a shadow. His field was tinged with grief, but he wasn’t letting it get out of hand, keeping his focus on here and now.

Seeing the door was unlocked — Rodimus almost never locked it — Ratchet bypassed the entry ping and simply barged right in.

“Wha—?” Rodimus looked up. He looked tired, but he wasn’t any more injured than Drift, who, still silent, circled around to stand behind Rodimus. With a look of sympathy Ratchet almost missed, the captain reached out and brushed his fingers across the back of Drift’s hand. They held hands for a moment, then let go. “Hey, Ratchet. Everything good in medbay?”

“Considering the scale of the conflict, things are mostly good in the medbay,” Ratchet replied. “Unfortunately, there is one patient who might not make it: Rewind.”

Rodimus frowned. “You should be working on him then. Reports can wait!”

“First Aid is already doing everything possible,” Ratchet said, putting all the confidence he had in his colleague into the statement. “My presence there won’t make any difference now, but there is something I can do here.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Don’t use this to manipulate Chromedome into helping you.” Ratchet wasn’t surprised by the sudden noise of the door locking behind him before he’d even finished the sentence. “It’s wrong, and it’s a mistake. Don’t do it.”

“Huh? What?” Rodimus turned to Drift. “That’s your play?”

“It’s unlikely anything else would overcome his personal animosity towards Prowl, or anything Prowl planned out,” Drift answered evenly, in a tone Ratchet recognized from some of the less sadistic interrogators he’d encountered during the war. The mechs who knew how to break someone, but hated doing it. 

Rodimus either didn’t hear it or didn’t care; he turned back to Ratchet with a shrug. “If it’s our best shot, it’s our best shot.”

“The fact that it could work,” which it very well could, and Ratchet knew it, “does not make it a  _ good _ idea. You would be asking him to do something he’s been trying to separate himself from, something his conjunx would be appalled by. If Rewind does die, and you dare to tell Chromedome he ‘would have wanted this’…” 

Behind Rodimus, where the captain couldn’t see, Drift flinched.

“What would you have us do then?” Rodimus sighed, sprawling back into his chair. “Eventually we’re going to make contact with Cybertron again. Should I just tell Prowl ‘oh I’m sorry, we could have made it work but instead we threw your little pet project out an airlock’? The answer is no, Ratchet. We are not doing that.”

“Of course not. Throwing Overlord out the airlock would be completely irresponsible. But you’re talking about leveraging a tragedy to emotionally manipulate someone into assaulting a non-consenting prisoner of war in a time of peace. That’s not just morally bankrupt, it’s criminal, Rodimus!”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this Ratchet, but let me spell it out for you.” Rodimus dropped his mask of flippant indifference and leaned forward. He pointed down at the deck of the ship, “Autobot ship,” to himself, “Autobot captain,” then to the wall, presumably referring to somewhere outside the ship, “Autobot high commander. Believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of flagrantly disobeying orders.”

“Says the mech who stole Ultra Magnus’ ship and blasted off to confront Starscream by himself,” Drift murmured almost too quietly for Ratchet to hear.

“And that turned out  _ so well _ for me, didn’t it?”

Ratchet actually remembered what he was referring to, having been there himself. It had been, like so many chapters in their history, a spectacular, convoluted series of near-disasters for everyone involved. And, if he was remembering correctly, “You didn’t disobey anyone when you did that, you were the one in charge,” he countered. “Just like you are now, Rodimus  _ Prime.” _

Rodimus scoffed. “If there’s one thing I learned from that whole series of unfortunate events, it’s… well, it’s that no one should ever trust Swindle. Ever. But if there’s a second takeaway, it’s that there’s only one Prime and it isn’t me… Matrix or no fragging Matrix.”

“You’re  _ my _ Prime,” Drift said softly, like it was a reassurance he’d said a hundred times before, and meant it just as sincerely as the first time. Rodimus flashed him a quick, cocky smile.

Ratchet couldn’t convincingly say the same, so he didn’t even try. “You’re also the captain of this ship, which is a  _ private  _ vessel under your  _ personal  _ authority. Even Ultra Magnus would acknowledge that, though I’m sure he’d also make a strong case for continuing to operate under the Autobot Code.”

“Prowl doesn’t care that this a private ship,” Rodimus scoffed again as the argument became less personal. “I’m an Autobot, therefore this is an Autobot ship.”

“Then act like an Autobot!” Ratchet took a step forward, pointing emphatically at the Autobrand at the center of Rodimus’ chest. He would have gone all the way up to the desk and physically pressed his finger to it, but Drift had tensed when he moved and he didn’t want to push it. With any other two mechs (including Optimus!), Ratchet wouldn’t have had to deal with that level of bodyguard response, but Drift — understandably, given his history — saw displays of temper as more threatening as they really were. He was trying  _ not _ to escalate this, damn it! “This isn’t our way.”

“That doesn’t make Prowl  _ wrong,” _ Rodimus said defensively, and Ratchet knew he had scored a hit. If only he could back off and let it sink in! But he needed their captain to call Drift off Chromedome  _ now. _ “There are a lot of things that would have been a lot easier if we’d had the tech to make Phase Sixers ourselves. A lot of worlds we could have protected.”

“You’re right. That much is absolutely true. It’s also not what’s at stake here.” The past was in the past, and the future was speculation. “If you do this, whether Chromedome succeeds or not, whether any greater good comes of it or not, you’ll be making a sacrifice. You’ll be compromising your integrity, you’ll be harming Chromedome,” and Overlord, technically, but there wasn’t time to get into why that mattered too. First Aid’s jumpstart would come through any klik now — the alternative was too awful to contemplate — and then Drift would leave and approach Chromedome unless Rodimus forbid it. Ratchet’s optics flicked over to Drift, apologizing for what he was about to say. “And you’ll be taking advantage of Drift.”

Rodimus’ optics narrowed. “Leave Drift out of this,” he hissed, leaning forward dangerously. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to sacrifice something for the greater good?”

“I’m not the one who brought Drift into this,” Ratchet shot back. “What do you think  _ Prowl  _ is willing to sacrifice for the greater good?”

“Ratchet!”

But Drift’s protest came too late; Rodimus’ optics widened with realization. He wasn’t dumb. Occasionally oblivious, but not dumb. Standing, he whirled to face Drift. “Is that why you’ve been so insistent about being the one to do this?”

Drift backed up a step, holding his hands out placatingly. “Like  _ you _ could have snuck around keeping tabs on Red Alert,” he snapped, words and tone completely at odds with his frame language.

“Not the point, Drift!”

“Yes! Okay! Is that what you want to hear?” Drift retorted. “There are a lot of things  _ I _ would sacrifice, but  _ you _ are not one of them. And somehow Prowl knew that, and he took advantage of it, but it doesn’t change a Primusdamned thing!”

“It does!” Rodimus took a step back and looked over at Ratchet, then back to Drift. “Ratchet, you win,” he said with a calm he obviously didn’t feel.  _ “No one’s _ talking to Chromedome about this — now or ever. Now go away.”

“Going away,” Ratchet said, grateful for the concession but sorry for how he’d won it. Now Rodimus and Drift were going to have a fight, and he and Drift were going to wind up fighting later too. He backed away, pausing at the door while it unlocked to let him out. “Thank you.”

Both mechs responded to that with a flat glare. Ratchet saw them just starting to turn back towards each other as the door slid closed, leaving him alone in the hallway.

“…slag.” That could have gone better. Ratchet stared at the door for a couple of nanokliks, then sighed and turned away. Things were far from over, but his part in them, for the moment, was. 

His steps faltered a bit at first. Ratchet forced himself to shake it off and keep moving. There were still twenty-one patients in the medbay, a transport full of prisoners with injuries that needed to be seen to (because they  _ did  _ have a duty of care when it came to prisoners, Overlord included), and the rest of the ground team to do post-battle checkups for.

Checking the ETA on the shuttle, Ratchet decided to head directly to Shuttle Bay 4 to meet the incoming prisoners.

The  _ Leading Light’s _ door hissed open as soon as it finished docking, extending its ramp so the stretchers could be unloaded. Ambulon was wheeling down the first one, talking to the mech strapped to it, while a twitchy Whirl followed in his wake. “There’s Ratchet now,” he said evenly to his patient, his paint looking even tattier than usual. “He’ll get you to the medbay and take care of you.”

“How serious is it?” Ratchet asked, looking down at the captured ‘Con. “Are you going to cooperate with me? I don’t hurt people who cooperate.”

“The others are in stasis lock,” whether they needed it or not, Ratchet could practically hear tacked onto Ambulon’s answer as the Decepticon nodded vigorously, his one remaining optic widening fearfully. “They’ll keep until we get to them. Ragefire here, though, took a shot through the neck. Disabled his vocoder and caused some errors in his processor when it clipped his spinal struts. The damage is contained but I can’t put him into stasis lock until his firewalls come down.”

“We’ll deal with that first then. Are you in pain right now?” Depending on the firewalls, basic blocks might be rejected without higher medical overrides; something relatively common among Decepticon prisoners. The Decepticon — Ragefire — hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay. What I’m going to do is establish peripheral access and administer medical code to dull the pain, then assess those processor errors. Hopefully it’ll be safe to put you in stasis quickly for the repairs.” At Ragefire’s quizzical look, he offered, “Unless you’d rather be immobilized and conscious while I’m working on your head?” Ragefire winced. He spared Ratchet another suspicious look, then nodded. “Good choice.”

Ambulon gave him a strange look, but said nothing. Whirl was not so tactful. “Who are you and what have you done with Ratchet?”

“I’m saving him to deal with you,” Ratchet said, glaring at the cackling rotary.

While Whirl (still laughing, though really, it wasn’t  _ that _ funny!), Ambulon and the others coming up from the planet unloaded the stasis locked Decepticons, Ratchet focused his attention on Ragefire. He didn’t want to risk aggravating a neck injury, so he opened up his wrist and grimaced. As an MTO — less a judgement on Ragefire himself and more on how obviously under budget his frame had been — he had standard cords, but no auxiliary port there. Left with no other choice, Ratchet cut open the primary data line going down to his cord array and spliced one of his own cords in to establish a data connection.

Immediately he saw the problem: it wasn’t that his firewalls were inherently blocking Ambulon’s commands, but that the data pathways had been corrupted by the injury.

_ “You’ve got neural damage that’s interrupting incoming data,”  _ Ratchet tried sending over the connection, and could tell the communication was going through by the change in Ragefire’s expression.  _ “Combine that with your firewalls and I’m going to have a hard time doing much. Are you able to lower them for me?” _

_ “Not a chance, Autobot,” _ Ragefire answered defiantly, though Ratchet could see just how thin a facade that was.

_ “Fine.”  _ He’d expected that response, but it had been worth a try.  _ “I’ve got a couple different things I can try right now, but if they don’t work I’ll have to splice in above the injury to get around the corruption.”  _ Which there was no way he was doing here, given how high up his spine the injury was. That kind of operation absolutely needed to be done in the medbay. In the meantime, Ratchet tried transferring a couple different pain blocks, one at a time.  _ “Let me know if the pain gets better.” _

He started with the originally-Decepticon pain scripts they’d gotten from Ambulon, Drift, and other defectors (mostly Ambulon). There was a chance, albeit a small one, that Ragefire’s firewalls would recognize them and automatically run the script without Ratchet needing to bring them down. Of course Ambulon would have tried this already as well, but he hadn’t been spliced directly into the mech’s datanet.

On his third try, Ragefire’s frame relaxed and the pain and damage alerts stopped. Ratchet could feel the ‘Con’s surprise.  _ “I think that worked.” _

_ “Good. The rest can wait until we’ve reached our destination.”  _ Ratchet would still try knocking him out with an override first, but he wanted to be ready if he needed to get more drastic.

Unsplicing his cable from Ragefire’s internals was a delicate process, and by the time he was done, Ambulon and the others had taken the Decepticons away, leaving the two of them and Whirl as the only ones in the shuttle bay. “I thought you would have followed Ambulon,” Ratchet said as he set off after the others.

“Someone’s gotta watch your sorry skidplate,” Whirl said cheerfully, clacking his pincers together in a way that made Ragefire flinch. “And your playmate is more interesting than all the sleepyheads.”

“Key word,  _ my  _ playmate.” Whirl intimidated without even trying, but Ratchet wasn’t going to let him start terrorizing patients on purpose. “You’re going to have to find another way to entertain yourself.”

Whirl shrugged like his words didn’t matter. “Sharing is caring, Ratchet!”

“Oh, stick around and I’ll share plenty. You didn’t come back early with the rest of the casualties, so that means you’re due for a post-battle checkup.” Ratchet gave Whirl a critical look. “Maybe I should wallpaper you with small patches.”

“Pfft.” He clacked his pincers again. “Waste of supplies.”

“You are not a waste of medical supplies.”

Whirl almost tripped over his own gangly feet. 

Ratchet blinked. “You’re not having problems with your balance and gyros, are you?”

“Naw.” Whirl shook himself, settling all his damaged armor over his frame. “I’m good.”

And that, apparently, was all he had left to say.

It was a little tricky finding room in the medbay when they arrived, unsurprisingly. Ratchet avoided bumping into anything, barely, and parked Ragefire off to one side. “I’ll be right back,” he told him before stepping away to grab the supplies he needed. He took the opportunity to look around quickly for Chromedome and Rewind, but he didn’t see them.

He didn’t see First Aid either. Rewind must have been moved to ISO. 

Whirl kind of wandered off, pausing at Cyclonus’ side and tilting his whole head to look down at the purple warrior with an expression Ratchet probably couldn’t have read if Whirl had had actual facial features. He was about to snap at him not to bother anyone, but the rotary moved on without saying or doing anything. Weird. If he wasn’t going to be disruptive though, Ratchet didn’t have time to deal with Whirl, so he let him go. 

Finished gathering what he needed, Ratchet returned to Ragefire. “I’m back. Let’s get you fixed up.” He started with a neck brace to keep the ‘Con’s head and shoulders in place while he gently rolled him onto his side so he could get at the fiber optic wires running up his spine to his processor. The injury was above the first plug on his neck, so Ratchet had to splice in again, but once that was done he sent Ragefire into a controlled shutdown and stasis lock just like he was any other patient.

“Whoever shot you,” he muttered as he began stripping out melted components, “has succeeded in giving me a lot to do.”

“Are we going to have to fabricate parts for him too?” Ratchet glanced up and saw Ambulon working on another of the stasis locked ‘Cons. The mech’s arm was laying beside him, deliberately disconnected, while Ambulon installed a new shoulder actuator to replace the shattered pieces of the old one — or tried to. “This one’s going to need a nonstandard rotator cuff, unless you’d rather replace the entire assembly so the parts all line up.”

“Are both shoulders nonstandard?” Ratchet had seen enough mechs turn into a patchwork of parts after centuries of “good enough for now” repairs that it wouldn’t surprise him if they weren’t. “It’s better if they match.”

“I’ll check.” Ambulon paused. “How extensive of repairs should we be doing?”

He sounded a little hesitant asking, but it was a fair question. Some commanders Ratchet had worked with had been adamant that Autobots should be repaired first, and Decepticons last — if at all. There was a certain brutal logic to it when fuel and parts were in short supply, but the  _ Lost Light _ had been well stocked, and every time they passed an inhabited planet Ratchet’s inventory lists were turned into more supplies as if by magic, so any such orders here and now would have been completely uncalled for. “We’re going to repair anything that’s the result of this battle to the best of our abilities. We have the time and materials to do the job right, so we should.” He didn’t hold with “good enough” being good enough, not when doing better was possible. “If you encounter any old injuries or other non-combat related issues, log them to come back to later, unless addressing them immediately is necessary.” They did need to clear the medbay, and there would be time to do additional repairs on anyone who needed or wanted to negotiate for them later.

Fortunately, while Ultra Magnus did eventually stop by to impose on the proceedings, his only command was that the Decepticons should be repaired quickly so they could be transferred to the brig as soon as possible. Oh, and by the way, remove their weapons, empty and disable their subspace pockets, and lock them into primary form before handing them over to Fort Max’s care.  _ Thank you Ultra Magnus, I needed to be told this because this is the first time I’ve dealt with prisoners. _

Even Ultra Magnus wasn’t so oblivious to sarcasm as to miss that one.

At some point First Aid joined them. Ratchet looked up and saw him concentrating on soldering some wires in someone’s chassis, so he didn’t interrupt, even though he wanted to ask about Rewind. All together, there were seventeen Decepticons to get through; a few with only minor injuries that took just a few breems to deal with and send on down, but most needed some sort of extensive repair before they could be woken from stasis.

There were a few mechs that had to be sent down to the brig with only partial repairs. Ragefire’s vocoder was easy to replace, but he needed a new optic, and they didn’t have a red one that would fit him on hand. It would take a while to fabricate all the parts for a new one, then put it together, stress test it to make sure it’d remain functional once installed… Ratchet wanted to wake him up and ask which he prefered: a shiny new pair of yellow optics, or to go without until a replacement red one was available. Meanwhile, Ambulon’s patient with the nonstandard shoulder turned out to have a nonstandard part in the other shoulder as well — a  _ different _ nonstandard part, and so would need extensive fabrication and repairs to both to bring him up to Ratchet’s standards. A third mech had degradation in his neural net caused by replacement wires that didn’t match his original ones. An old injury, but something that could be fatal if left unaddressed; since it would be a while before it caused him further problems though, they didn’t do anything about it now. Ratchet told Fortress Maximus to set those three aside in a separate cell so they could be readily pulled back to medical… 

“Alright, gobermouches,” Rodimus announced, sauntering into the medbay some time later. “Time for all the good little medics to go to sleep and leave things to the medical drones for a shift.  _ Captain’s _ orders.”

The particular emphasis on his rank had Ratchet rethinking what he’d been about to say. “If we’re all going off shift together, we should finish these last few prisoner transfers first,” he said diplomatically. Obviously Rodimus was still irritated from their earlier argument and now was not the time to push his luck.

“Yeah? How long’s that gonna take?”

“A breem at the most for this one.” Ratchet turned to the others, silently seconding the question.

“Same,” First Aid replied.

“I’m done, once this weld cools.” Ambulon set down his tools. “Should I take him down to Fortress Maximus and call it quits?”

“Take over for Ratchet,” Rodimus countermanded. “I need him for a breem or two. I’ll send Fort Max up to help when you’re done.”

Ratchet stepped aside, gesturing for Ambulon to take his place. “I’ll see you both later,” he told his colleagues. They had both done excellent work, but it was good practice to review large scale events like this after the fact. “Until then, get some rest.”

Rodimus gave them both a grin and a wave, then let Ratchet precede him out of the medbay. 

Ratchet should have guessed he wasn’t really interested in an after action report. “I expect you to apologize to Drift for that stunt earlier,” the captain announced, trotting to catch up. 

“As soon as he lets me,” Ratchet said, and meant it. “I told him I would wait for him to tell you.”

“Which he wasn’t ever going to do. It was still a slag thing to do.” Rodimus turned down a corridor, quick stride overtaking Ratchet for a moment. “Walk and talk, gobermouch. I really don’t want this to take more than a couple of breems.”

That was probably a good idea, if they were going to keep things civil. “We’d left things at a standstill with no real time limit. Then, suddenly, there was a time limit. I said what I thought I had to, which, yes — slag thing to do.” Ratchet sighed. “How mad is he?”

Rodimus shrugged. He led them into a elevator and hit the button for the ship’s lowest deck. “You know Drift: he doesn’t let himself get mad.”

No, he didn’t. He just got quietly upset, which was almost worse. “I am going to apologize,” Ratchet promised, watching the floors flash by. Where were they going?

“Good.” 

Rodimus seemed content to drop the topic at that point, though they obviously weren’t done. Ratchet drummed his fingers on his arm, uncomfortable with the silence. “So what happens now?”

“You have one more prisoner you need to put in stasis,” Rodimus answered. “You know, since you insisted.” 

Oh. “Only because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Probably,” Rodimus conceded. He gave Ratchet a cocky grin as the lift came to a stop and he stepped out, leaving Ratchet to follow to Overlord’s hidden cell. Rodimus paused next to an exterior airlock — one of the ones that would be connected to a space station or something when the  _ Lost Light _ needed repairs — and keyed it open, cycling it to let them out of the ship. 

Instead of the cold exterior of space, there was a long walkway leading to a podium. Above, Overlord hung by his restraints, moaning softly. Ratchet froze, assaulted by the memory of the last time he’d been this close to a Phase Sixer. Desperately trying to run and hide, driving frantically without knowing whether the next shot would hit him or not when that failed, only to be cornered by the water… Sixshot had almost  _ killed him. _

With a flicker of concern in his field, Rodimus touched Ratchet’s hand, bringing him out of the flashback. The captain gave him a reassuring smile and led the way down the walkway. Shaking off the shock of actually  _ seeing  _ Overlord for the first time, Ratchet walked determinedly forward after him. 

Something happened as soon as Rodimus crossed the threshold of the cell itself, his steps slowing to a crawl, and Ratchet cautiously followed. Rodimus sped back up as soon as Ratchet was inside with him, and he could hear Overload much more clearly.

_ “Kill~ me~…” _ he moaned in a whisper that nevertheless boomed through the small space.

“Interesting security feature,” Ratchet commented, mentally reassuring himself that they were safe, they were completely safe. “Is it safe to talk here?”

“He can hear us,” Rodimus answered, “so probably not. He hasn’t reacted to anything… though we haven’t exactly been poking him to get a response.”

Fantastic. “Let’s continue not doing that.” And hope that putting him into stasis wasn’t the sort of thing that would provoke a response. The reality of doing this was a lot more intimidating than talking about it, and Ratchet was in full agreement with Rodimus that they should be as quick as possible.

“Here.” Rodimus stopped at the end of the walkway and put his hand on the control panel there. Standing there put them frighteningly close to Overlord. Of course it did, Ratchet thought a little hysterically, they had to be able to get close enough for Chromedome to use his needles, though the Phase Sixer was still technically out of reach. The restraints looked like a robotic system that could position the prisoner however was needed, and respond automatically to his (currently nonexistent) struggles. Stasis fields vibrated, echoing off the walls, struggling to paralyze the prisoner and only succeeding in making his systems sluggish. 

Ratchet looked up into Overlord’s optics. The bright red lights stared down, unseeing. “Kill~ me~…”

Cycling his vents, Ratchet told Rodimus, “I need access. Preferably,” he tapped the back of his own neck to indicate where. The port there would be less armored, and using it would have the benefit of not having to look Overlord in the face while he worked.

Typing a series of commands into the control panel, Rodimus directed the robotic restraints to lower Overlord. The whole creepy, borderline surreal and vaguely terrifying experience had Ratchet expecting them to whirr or clank ominously, but the only sound was the faint hum of powered electronics beneath Overlord’s begging to die. As Rodimus had said, the huge mech didn’t react at all to being moved.

Once he was in position, Ratchet had to steel himself to step closer. He was so  _ big… _

The clawlike restraint attached to Overlord’s head blocked the topmost port. Ratchet didn’t have any idea if Prowl had had a hand in designing this cell, but if he had he could see the tactician not caring about his ports being accessible, only that there was room for a memnosurgeon to work. Fortunately, the third port, further down Overlord’s spine, was in the gap between two of the massive restraints.

Given both his sheer size and custom fame design, even if Ratchet had wanted to connect directly (and he really, really didn’t) he would have needed an external adapter. Pulling a medical device designed to buffer connections with potentially hostile systems from his subspace, Ratchet plugged himself in and made sure it was working properly before reaching out to connect it to Overlord.

He managed to only jerk, not jump, back when the port spiralled open without any hesitation.  _ Get in and get out,  _ Ratchet told himself, and braced for the connection as he slid the cord into place.

The depth of Overlord’s suicidal desire hit him before the mech’s firewalls even registered.  _ Kill me! _ he practically howled. Nipping at the thought’s heels came the knowledge that Ratchet could do it too. He was a medic, one famous and recognizable on both sides of the battle lines. Surely he had copies of all of SpecOps’ little tricks, from self destruct codes to lethal viruses. Was it too much to hope for that Ratchet would deploy one now…

No. Ratchet was a medic, not a murderer. The only thing he’d come to do was induce deep stasis lock, and that was all he was going to do.

The barrier between their minds kept Overlord from seeing his determination, of course. Ratchet had to ignore the continuing, insidious pleas to kill him — it would be the merciful thing to do, he was the enemy, he couldn’t possibly have any reason for leaving him alive — as he isolated the pathways he needed to activate and queued up the sequence to run. Would Overlord fight it when he realized it wasn’t what he wanted? Or would he go with it willingly and take the partial escape from his own mind? Take oblivion however it was offered?

Only one way to find out.

“Initiating stasis lock.”

_ KILL ME! _ thundered through their connection as hope turned rapidly to uncaring apathy. Automatic protocols — Ratchet was an  _ Autobot _ medic — spun up to combat the override, but were squashed by the mech himself. He accepted the dreamless sleep, with just the tiniest flicker of  _ maybe _ they would kill him while he was helpless to resist… 

Overlord’s mind faded and Ratchet found himself standing next to his offline form, trembling. That had been… an experience.

He ran through the process of checking, confirming, and putting his personal codes in place to secure the lock so it couldn’t be casually counterracted almost on autopilot, then disconnected. “It’s done,” he announced, and put away the buffering device. “We can go now.”  _ Please. _

“Yeah.” Rodimus directed the robotic restraints to pull Overlord’s limp frame back up, out of reach, then shut down the console, locking it as well. “Come on.”

There was a moment of disorientation as they exited the cell, greater than the effect of going in. Everything felt  _ off, _ even without his systems’ automatic attempt to sync his chronometer to the ship’s time. Rodimus appeared to be taking it in stride, but Ratchet found himself sorting through a dozen error messages.

“What exactly is going on with that cell?” he asked, hesitant to dismiss anything before he could be sure which were actual errors.

“Prowl called it a slow cell,” Rodimus answered dismissively. “Brainstorm could explain it — he designed it, apparently — but I wasn’t paying that much attention. To answer the question you’re  _ really _ asking: all those errors can be safely dismissed, as long as you take a moment to update your logs and fill in the gap of ‘missing’ time with something other than time spent in stasis lock so the automatic systems that use those logs don’t get confused.”

“Easy enough.” Ratchet set about editing his logs appropriately. “Much easier than muddling through a Brainstorm explanation.”

Rodimus flashed a smile. “I’ve already updated the duty roster so you can get in a full shift of recharge. Go do it. I’m going to stay down here and do some laps.”

“I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t ask if you’re up to that after banging around a battlefield getting shot at,” Ratchet said, though a quick scan indicated that yes, remarkably, Rodimus was in fact okay.

“I’m not planning on meteor surfing; just some laps. I don’t even have a racing partner.”

Ratchet winced. It was his fault Rodimus’ usual racing partner wasn’t here. Drift’s version of meditation didn’t involve as much physical exertion as the captain’s. “Make sure you recharge too, eventually,” was all he said. “Thank you.”

Rodimus waved that off and transformed, accelerating down a corridor that, now that Ratchet was looking for it, bore the telltale marks on the floor of being used for this several times before. Ratchet shook his head and smiled. At least Ultra Magnus was too busy dealing with the prisoners to catch him at it.

Wishing he could talk to Drift, but knowing he needed the rest, Ratchet headed back up to his habsuite to recharge. 

A little time and space was probably a good idea anyway.

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	13. Chapter 13

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Because of the delay in getting to recharge caused by the slow cell, Ratchet was the last medic up the next cycle. Silently, he thanked Rodimus for his forethought in switching his and Ambulon’s shifts, even if it meant Ambulon was the one doing after-action check-ups on everyone who’d only been lightly injured during the battle, and wallpapering Whirl in temp patches. By the time Ratchet came in to take over there were only a handful of stragglers left.

He was not prepared for one of them to be Drift.

The swordsmech looked… brittle. He was wearing his Cheerful Autobot mask, entering the medbay with a bounce in his step, but there were deep cracks in the facade, and grief hung off his shoulders like a cape. “Reporting for my post-battle,” he said, trying to insert some warmth into the words with a smile, but both fell decidedly flat.

Ratchet gestured to an empty berth (they actually had a couple of those again). “Is your self repair reporting anything significant?” he asked gently.

Pausing, Drift very deliberately divested himself of all three swords and set them on the berth, then climbed up. He faced Ratchet, letting his legs hang over the side. He seemed to debate what to do with his hands, then settled for resting them on his knees. “It says I’ve got a patched hole in my leg,” he said, trying for a spark of humor.

“I’d say that’s a sign it’s working, since you definitely do have a patched hole in your leg. And you strained your left arm,” Ratchet said after running a basic scan. It was good to see that a lot of the damage he’d seen on Drift just after the battle had been minor enough that a shift of recharge and a good wash had taken care of most of it. He held out a hand. “May I?”

Did Drift hesitate to take his hand? If he did, it was so briefly that Ratchet couldn’t be sure. He took his time working up Drift’s arm, checking each joint for anything worse than cable strain that would recover on its own. Drift flinched a little when he manipulated his elbow, but otherwise didn’t react.

“Go easy on it for a cycle and it should be fine,” Ratchet said when he was finished. “Nothing’s torn, just a little overused.”

“I will,” Drift promised.

“What about that patch?” Technically it was fine and Ratchet could leave it alone, but as unprepared as he’d been to see Drift when he walked in, he was reluctant to let him leave now.

Drift tilted his head. “Sure.”

Ratchet set about replacing the field patch with something a little neater. He smoothed his fingers along the torn edges of Drift’s plating, worried more about his mental state than the physical. He looked so tired… “Am I allowed to apologize?” he asked softly.

Drift twitched. “Yeah,” he said after a klik.

Ratchet sought out Drift’s hand again. “I’m sorry,” he said. He couldn’t go into a lot of detail in the public medbay, but he could still say this much. “That information was yours to share, and I broke my promise not to say anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay as in we’re okay, or okay it doesn’t matter what I say because you can’t forgive me?”

“Okay as in I’d like for us to be okay,” Drift answered honestly. Then, “The Circle of Light wasn’t there,” he said in a rush. Grief flooded his EM field for a moment before he rather abruptly reined it back in. “It doesn’t look like they were ever there, and now we have no leads.” 

It felt wrong to be relieved that Drift was upset about that, not mad at him. Shoving that reaction aside, Ratchet focused on his very real sympathy instead. “I’d heard,” he said, and pulled Drift into a hug. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

Drift leaned into Ratchet’s arms almost desperately. “I didn’t recharge much after,” he admitted quietly.

“Were you trying to meditate on the Great Sword again?” Ridiculous as he thought it was, Ratchet wished it had worked for him. “Or just having bad dreams?”

“Both.” Drift clung tighter. “I wanted you there, then I’d remember I was upset with you. But I still wanted you there.”

“We’ve been upset with each other while still being there for each other before.” Maybe he should have gone after Drift instead of straight back to his room after putting Overlord in stasis. “When are you supposed to be on duty again?”

“I’m supposed to go down and supervise stripping down the Decepticon base and ships in a few joors.” Drift’s death grip loosened but he didn’t let go. Ratchet continued to hold him, checking how much time he had left on his shift. 

“Want company?” he offered. “Not right away, unless you put it off a little bit, but I can join you after I’m done here.”

“Sure. Thank you.” Drift finally pulled back, though he didn’t let go of Ratchet’s hands. “I appreciate it.”

“Happy to help.” Ratchet tried to think of something else to say, something positive. “Did you hear what happened with Rewind?”

“I did. Whirl volunteered as a…” Drift tilted his head, as though he wasn’t sure about his wording, “spark donor? Apparently they’re the same sparktype.”

“Apparently. Ambulon told me the story when I came in, and I’m not sure which surprised me more: the fact that First Aid found a second candidate with Rewind’s sparktype after the first attempt didn’t work, or that Whirl volunteered.”

Drift did smile then. It was a little ragged around the edges, but genuine. “Whirl is full of surprises sometimes. How’s the  _ Clockwork Criminal?” _

“You know, incredible as this will sound, it’s actually almost good.” Ratchet chuckled, amazed to be able to say that. When he’d first told Drift about the fledgling book club, he’d been extremely skeptical of its first selection. “Not what I’d usually pick, but the writing and the plot are solid, if a bit gratuitous. Not trashy porn gratuitous,” he clarified, “just sensational and violent.”

“Sounds like Whirl.” It did, and perhaps that was the most surprising thing. It very much sounded like Whirl, and Ratchet was reading and actually enjoying something that very much sounded like something Whirl would like, but it wasn’t what he’d  _ expected. _ “What’s it about?”

“It’s a detective story, following the gritty investigation of a series of murders by a dashing but brooding private eye. A helicopter, naturally,” though the lead character was a great deal more serious than Whirl. “I haven’t finished it yet, so I don’t know whether or not the Praxan mech-fatale is going to betray him, or betray him and then betray the bad guys to save him.”

“Naturally.” Drift squeezed both Ratchet’s hands with a smile. “You and your book club will have plenty to talk about when you meet up.”

“It’s not  _ my  _ book club,” Ratchet protested, even if he had contributed to its existence. While drunk, so of course he wasn’t responsible at all. “I know for a fact Rung is going to suggest something to read next. Do you want to join in?”

“I would,” Drift replied, not surprising Ratchet in the slightest. Of course he would; he had effectively gotten a minor in literature. It was a shame no Autobot institution would recognize that degree. “But I wouldn’t have anything to suggest reading,” he finished. “The library’s been approved, by the way. Rung gets to pick an empty storeroom that strikes his fancy.”

“I’ll have to ask him to let me know when he’s accepting contributions, then.” Ratchet didn’t have much in his personal collection that wasn’t medically related, but he did have a few purely recreational files, and there was a good chance Rung would want all of it anyway. “You’re wrong about having nothing to suggest, you know.”

“Everything I saved would be considered sedition,” Drift reminded him. “Even things that wouldn’t be restricted because of the subject matter, would be because of the authors.”

“Who wrote them shouldn’t be a reason not to read them.” Even though it explicitly  _ was, _ in the Autobot Code. “Obviously propaganda is still propaganda, but if you stripped the names off some of those articles, no one would be able to attribute them to one faction or another. And even the ones that are blatantly of Decepticon origin could have their merits, when framed appropriately.”

“I’m not stripping our names off those,” Drift said with a hint of heat, but he didn’t let go of Ratchet’s hands, “even if they are pseuds. We worked hard on those. I’m not going to pretend Autobots wrote them.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ratchet tried to explain. “What I was getting at was that, if they wouldn’t be objectionable without the names, then they shouldn’t be with them. I wouldn’t want to see them stripped off.”

“Oh. Well,” Drift leaned forward and gently bunted Ratchet’s shoulder, “that’s nice of you to say, but there isn’t a lot either of us can do about it. The Autobot Code is pretty explicit about the subject of Decepticon writings.”

“It is. But maybe that’s an aspect of the Code that could stand to be relaxed in application, outside the context of war.” There was a difference between the moral and military aspects of the Autobot Code, and, as Ratchet had so recently insisted, this wasn’t a military ship in the traditional sense (all the fighting they wound up doing notwithstanding). It felt like the sort of thing he  _ shouldn’t  _ be advocating, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt certain regulations were no longer appropriate, and that clinging to them would only preserve a mindset of war. “It ties in to a point I was trying to make earlier and did a poor job of articulating.”

“Ultra Magnus doesn’t do relaxed,” Drift teased. 

Ratchet would have quipped back, but, “Am I interrupting?” Hound asked from the doorway. “I’m here for my post-battle.”

Chagrined, he realized he hadn’t finished replacing the patch on Drift’s leg. “I’ll be with you as soon as I get this covered,” he told Hound. “Go ahead and take that last berth and give me a klik.”

“No problem,” Hound smiled. “Don’t have _ too  _ much fun while I wait.”

Ratchet didn’t respond to that. “Fresh temp patch alright?” he asked Drift, forced at last to relinquish his hands.

“That’s fine.” Drift’s hands went back to his knees to wait. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“And I’ll find you at your work after,” Ratchet promised, fitting the new patch into place and sealing the edges. “I’ll call when I’m about to head out.”

“I’ll meet you down on the surface.” Drift reached up and touched Ratchet’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Hound was watching him when Ratchet turned from watching Drift make his way out. “What?”

“Nothing.” Hound offered an unconvincing smile. 

Ratchet  _ harrumphed _ and pulled up Hound’s file. According to Ambulon’s hasty first aid notes, he’d taken a grazing shot to his arm (patched) and had gotten some shrapnel embedded in his leg (removed, no complications). A more thorough scan didn’t turn up any additional injuries. Like Drift, recharge and a wash had taken care of any additional minor dents, dings, and scrapes he might have taken. Checking the field repairs showed they’d been done hastily, but didn’t need to be messed with.

After Hound, Ratchet continued mopping up the last post-battle stragglers. Blaster was the last one to come in, and as expected there were no problems with his check up either. That left Ratchet free to move on to those casualties from the battle who were still in stasis lock. Cyclonus had come up on his own and checked himself out, and Ambulon had penciled in an appointment to “drag him in by that stupid horn and make sure he didn’t drop dead in his recharge” next cycle, but the others still needed extensive repairs.

It was with a sort of ruthlessness that he didn’t like about himself that Ratchet tackled the ones needing the least repairs first, replacing parts he had on hand, no extensive rebuilds or limb reconstructions. Everyone was stable, and getting as much of the crew mobile and healthy as possible, quickly, was more important than tackling the most complicated cases.

By the end of his shift, he had finished installing all the new parts Hoist and Sprocket needed. Neither had lost limbs, which simplified things, though Hoist in particular still needed some downtime for everything to integrate while his self repair built back up to make full use of his repaired nanite reservoir.

He would probably be willing to help with some of the fabrication for the others, once he was awake.

“Unless there are any complications, you can bring both of them up toward the end of your shift,” Ratchet told First Aid when he came on to relieve him. “I’d planned to tackle that twisted foot next,” he gestured to where he’d been setting up, “but didn’t start yet so you can pick up there or work around to it.”

“Gotcha.” First Aid nodded, then his gaze turned concerned. “You’re not in trouble, are you? The captain pulled you aside for a while last cycle, and he seemed irritated.”

“No, I’m not in trouble,” though Ratchet had certainly thought he was at the time. “Rodimus was irritated because he had a long list of things to take care of after the battle and pulled me aside to offload some of them.”

“Oh, okay.” First Aid accepted the explanation, sparse as it was, and surveyed the medbay and their remaining patients. “I’ll look over everyone’s charts, but I think I’ll take on the ankle first.”

“Quickest cases first at this point,” Ratchet reminded him, though First Aid just nodded that he’d already been thinking along those lines. “I’m going to go assist with the salvage, see what I can bring back for the prisoners to make dealing with their injuries easier.”

“I’ll call if I get stuck. Want me to make a list of things we might need in between patients?”

“That would be helpful, yes.” He remembered a couple off the top of his head, but since he was going to help Drift as much as he was to look for anything useful, taking the time to review all the charts before he left to create a list for himself was out. “See you later.”

“Don’t have  _ too  _ much fun.”

Ratchet snorted. Reclamations were never “fun”.

It was a short shuttle ride down to the surface to meet Drift. Ratchet pinged ahead, as promised, and arrived with the fresh lot of empty crates and containers Drift requested.

“How far along are things?” he asked, taking in the alien landscape scarred by the familiar signs of battle.

“We cleared out the pink alchemy stuff already,” Drift answered, pinging Ratchet a language packet. “This is Duor’ig,” he said once Ratchet had had a moment to integrate the new language, holding out the tiny native perched in his hand. “Duor’ig, my nomagqe, and our healer, Ratchet. He’s here to help us take what could do further harm to your people.”

“We appreciate the chance we have been given to rebuild,” the little alien said diplomatically.

“We’ve agreed to leave the buildings to them to use as a basis for that rebuilding,” Drift nodded to the blocky, rectangular prefab where the rest of the salvage team was working.

“I’ll be careful not to do any additional damage then, and report any structural issues I come across.” He was no architect, but it was impossible not to learn at least a little about such things after so many vorns of destruction. They’d all learned to tell if the building they’d just found would be a good place to put a temporary biovac, or a trap waiting to fall down at the worst possible moment. “Are there any chemical compounds that are toxic to your species that we should be taking extra precautions with?”

Drift pinged him a list — ammonia, arsine, boron trichloride; pretty standard for an organic species — as Duor’ig answered, “We are particularly sensitive to fluorine, in all its forms.”

“Noted.” Fluorine wasn’t critical to the process of refining energon, but it did have useful applications in refining, enriching, and smelting other compounds. There was a good chance of running across it wherever the Decepticons had been manufacturing building materials.

“Thank you. We owe your people a debt, not just for defeating the invaders and freeing us, but for helping us afterwards.”

“I told you, Duor’ig, these things we’re cleaning up are things we need. You repay any debt by letting us take them, and the ships,” Drift responded smoothly. “Many in your position have not been so generous.”

Many in Duor’ig’s position had, in fact, chased them off-world the nanoklik it was in their power to do so. Autobots and Decepticons got lumped together as unwanted guests as often as not.

“Unless there’s something else you want me to focus on,” Ratchet addressed Drift, “I thought I’d start with whatever medical facilities and supplies they had.” Including, though he didn’t say it out loud, the bodies of those who had not survived the battle.

“I think Skids is done getting the ships open,” Drift informed him, and Ratchet couldn’t even find it in him to be surprised Skids had at some point in his mysterious past learned to disable airlocks and Decepticon boobytraps. “There weren’t any medical facilities in the base, so I’d guess that’s the best place to start.” He switched briefly to Cybertronian. “If that’s where you’re starting, there is something I’d like you to look for.”

“What’s that then?” Ratchet asked, responding in kind.

“Use the computer’s search function and see if there’s a Directory 1129. It won’t show up on the directory listing; you have to use the search. If it’s there, use the login Digress, password,” he paused. “Password ‘bestofthebest_killer’. Assuming that gets you in, instead of deleting the whole thing, just copy everything for me. Please?”

If he was asking what it  _ sounded  _ like he was asking, it represented an incredible amount of trust. Ratchet smiled, and nodded. “I’ll let you know if it works,” he said without hesitation. Just Drift though; Ultra Magnus would confiscate anything he found and bring him up on charges for helping to preserve Decepticon writings.

Ultra Magnus could suck his own exhaust. 

Drift reached out and touched Ratchet’s hand. “I’ll be here. Supervising.” As if on cue, there was a crash from inside the big prefab and Drift sighed. “Really. Supervising.” He put Duor’ig down with a quick apology and an explanation that outside of battle, most warriors were just idiots. Duor’ig made a subsonic growl that Ratchet’s language packet translated as a laugh and made an untranslatable gesture. Drift stood and flashed Ratchet a smile before running to deal with whatever had gone wrong.

With a quick farewell of his own to Duor’ig, Ratchet set off to find Skids and see what he could make of the ships. Besides Drift’s personal request, it would be a good idea to check the onboard computers for any patient records.

“Skids!” Ratchet called when he saw him. “Are they safe to go in yet?”

“Hmm? Oh, hi Ratchet.” He turned from where he’d been contemplating the ships. “Yeah, or, well that one,” he pointed to the smaller of the two, “is. I’m not 100% sure about the other yet. It’s  _ really _ weird knowing how to do this but not remembering learning. Something about that one,” he pointed to the larger, “doesn’t seem right yet.”

“I’ll let you figure out what before I risk it,” Ratchet said, heading for the smaller ship first. “Has anyone started bringing the bodies together yet?”

“I think the plan is to just take them all and let you sort them up on the ship,” Skids responded. “The Temptorians don’t want them, for sure. They’ve got some sort of,” he waved his hand vaguely, “religious thing about not touching the body of a dead enemy. There should be a pile in the main building, where they’re stripping consoles and stuff.”

“If they’re coming up to the ship, I’ll deal with them there.” Gruesome as it was, it was a good chance to make sure First Aid was up to handling that sort of thing. “Let me know when you’re sure about the other ship.”

“Will do.”

Like almost every Decepticon ship Ratchet had ever been on, this one was windowless and dark, even though the lights had been left on. The decks hummed quietly thanks to the functioning generators; this wasn’t a derelict. He took a few kliks to orient himself — neither faction put anything like a visible  _ map _ on the wall, and he couldn’t just ping the ship’s computer for navigation data — then he set off for the ship’s small medbay.

It wasn’t in great shape. Not the worst he’d seen, by far, but that was largely owing to the fact that there wasn’t much to make a mess of. The bay was sparse as well as small, with only a few berths and minimal equipment. It hadn’t been left to get completely filthy, but buildup in the corners spoke of a lower standard of cleanliness than Ratchet maintained on the  _ Lost Light.  _

One room off the main bay was storage, which Ratchet left that alone in favor of seeking out a computer terminal. Maybe there would be an inventory list for the hodgepodge.

He found the computer behind another door, but no inventory on it. Or, rather, there  _ was _ a list of available parts saved to the harddrive, but even a quick glance back out to the main bay showed it to be wildly inaccurate. It said there was only one recharge berth, when clearly there were three. Joy. 

By a stroke of luck, whoever had used the terminal last had forgotten to log out properly and Ratchet was able to get into the medical files without having to bypass any locks or encryptions. He started looking through them as he copied them over to bring back, only able to match a couple of records to their new prisoners without knowing their names. Ragefire was the only one he remembered for sure, and his file was relatively sparse. It didn’t look like he’d been at this outpost very long, and if his earlier history had transferred with him, it hadn’t been properly linked with his new record.

Giving up on the patient files until he was back on board the  _ Lost Light _ , he moved on to his other task. The terminal here didn’t have access to anything at the command level, but it was connected to the ship’s general network. Ratchet pulled up the search function and queried for “Directory 1129”.

His tank clenched as the scrolling ⋯ symbols appeared, indicating the computer was scanning the files. He wasn’t sure if it was nervousness or hope. Neither. Both. This wasn’t reading and appreciating some writings Drift had written; this was retrieving writing by, by… well he didn’t know. But he bet some of the most notorious Decepticons had pseuds — frag  _ Deadlock _ had been notorious! — as well as a lot of unknowns.

After waiting for what felt like forever, the search came back with a login request. Ratchet let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding, then carefully entered Digress’s name and password. There was another agonizing wait while the computer processed that, and Ratchet wondered about what Drift had said about the possibility of the directory deleting itself. Why would the name Digress trigger an erasure? Unless there were Decepticons who knew that Digress and Deadlock were the same person, and had blocked Digress to keep out the Autobot Drift. 

_ Ping!  _ A forum page appeared on the screen, displaying Digress’ user profile. Ratchet grinned with triumph. Apparently none of the Decepticons stationed here had known who Digress really was.

He recognized the works Digress had posted when he scanned through them, but when he backed out to the main navigation page, he saw several titles and even several authors that weren’t in the collection Drift had shared with him. And the sheer number of subforums and posts! There was a lot here… Would a datapad be big enough to back it all up? Probably not; especially if Drift wanted him to backup all the forum posts and threads as well as all the creative or analytical writing. There were millions of them, going back millions of vorns. 

One early thread had been pinned to the top of its page said “Sources” and, curious, he clicked it. Files for download and accompanying abstracts filled the computer’s screen, arranged by subject. Glancing through the medical/science page sent a jolt through Ratchet. These were all the texts and articles and research that Drift said they had stolen to start their secret university! 

Backing out of that, Ratchet decided to go ahead and back up the entire thing. Like the bodies and parts they were taking from the rest of the base, if Drift didn’t want the forum posts and the rest of the chatter, he could separate it out and delete it later. Better to take everything, useless bits and all, than miss out on something valuable by accident. He pulled a pile of datapads from his subspace, checking that none of them had anything important on them as he went, then plugged the first one in. Back on Digress’ profile page he thought he’d seen… yes. There was a shortcut there to run a backup on the whole forum. 

Letting that run, Ratchet took the useless inventory and went back to the medbay proper to start sorting and categorizing. The list was as dreadfully out of date as he’d feared, but it did give him a starting point. Anything that wasn’t perishable or frequently used appeared to still be in the medbay, and there were several things on it that would be good to take with them if he could find them. The difficulty was all the things that had been crammed into storage without ever being digitally recorded. No shortcuts there; Ratchet had no choice but to physically sift through bin after bin of (mostly) junk for the occasional diamond in the rough, pausing periodically to check the forum download.

“Hey,” Skids peeked in, optics flicking over the bins Ratchet was sorting. “How are you doing? Need help?”

Scrap! He could use the help, yes, but he didn’t want Skids to see what he was downloading. “There’s some shelves at the back in there,” he pointed deeper into the storage room. “If you could get the things down off them and set them out on the berths where I can reach them, that’d be great.” And while he was doing that, Ratchet could lock the computer monitor so a stray glance wouldn’t incriminate him.

“Sure thing!”

Skids couldn’t reach the top shelves either. He was only  _ technically _ taller than Ratchet because of his shoulder kibble, but he didn’t hesitate to climb the lower shelves to get at the high up things. There was enough there to keep him busy while Ratchet finished the box he was digging through, then casually step away to take care of the computer before returning to the bric a brac. 

“I’ve been putting the immediately useful stuff over there,” he told Skids, pointing to one small pile and the larger one beside it, “and less useful stuff there. The rest I’ve been consolidating back into the boxes and trying to decide whether or not to even take them.” Not too long ago, there would have been no question — take them, just in case — but things weren’t as desperate on the  _ Lost Light  _ as they clearly had been here. A lot of what had been saved was really only useful for smelting down and recasting, and that only after some serious cleaning and refining.

“Gotcha. Mind if I watch you for a bit so I get a feel for what you’re considering immediately useful and less useful? I only recognize some of these.” He picked up something, rather like a stylus with two electrically charged prongs on one end and a wire to connect it to power on the other. “Like this; it’s for testing myomer substructures for viability and proper connectedness.” He considered the tool for a moment. “Or torture, I think. Both. But I don’t recognize everything.”

Ratchet blinked. It probably could be used for torture, technically, but that wasn’t what he was assessing the parts for. “You can watch, but unless you’ve got a good optic for alloys, you won’t be able to do much with the unrecognizable stuff. Some materials are more useful than others, and some aren’t worth the trouble to separate once they’ve been mixed.”

“Swerve’s told me a few things.” Skids smiled easily. “You can always double check my work.”

“True.” Ratchet waved him over closer. “Let’s finish this one together, then you can pick out a box for yourself.” 

Skids scooted closer, happy to help. And probably to be learning something new. Ratchet walked him through the process of sorting a useful part from non-useful ones, then how to recognize a good alloy worth salvaging from something that was pretty much slag. He seemed fascinated; other than those tips he’d gotten from Swerve and a few oddball alloys that were also used in other things (like building construction), this was all new information to him.

Ratchet pondered Skids’ knowledge. He (and Skids himself) didn’t have the context for that learning, but some of it was… telling. Or at least made Ratchet wonder if there was a handler out there, wondering where his superlearner had wandered off to. He shrugged, dismissing the thought. At best he was speculating. Even if true, unless Skids regained some part of his memory, or his handler contacted them, there was nothing they could do about it.

Skids proved to be a good helper though. Together they were able to get through all of the stuff, separating out what was worth taking and ensuring what was left (because Ratchet did decide to leave it) was “safe” to remain onboard. Rodimus hadn’t made a decision what to do with the two ships yet, beyond towing them away from the planet, but according to Skids, selling them as scrap was a possibility. By the time they were done, the only thing left in the bay that would violate the statutes governing the sale of technology to aliens were the records on the computer, which would be wiped in any case.

“Want to start transporting these while I make a final pass, then help me with the other ship?” Ratchet asked, silently hoping the download was done by now.

“Sure.” Skids transformed and popped open his rear doors. “Load me up.” 

It didn’t all fit in one load, and not everything could easily fit inside Skids’ altmode. He promised to come back with a trailer for the rest, then took off when there wasn’t room for anything else. 

Ratchet didn’t waste any time once he was gone. He went straight to the computer, overriding the lock he’d put on the monitor to check the download’s progress.

To his relief, he saw it was done. It took up most of five datapads, and Ratchet ejected them and stashed them in his subspace. He left the hidden directory, made sure he had his copies of the patient files, then closed the terminal without logging out. Keeping whoever it was logged in would help later when they went to erase everything.

When Skids returned with the promised trailer, he brought along a surprise in the form of Drift. Ratchet smiled to see him and gestured to the pile. “Come to help us with the rest of this? Or have you come to divert me?”

“A little of both. We’re done with the base, so we just need to finish up with the two ships and we’re golden. But I was hoping for a klik with you.”

“I think I can spare a klik before I move on to the other ship.” He didn’t ask why until they’d loaded the trailer and Skids was on his way with it, though. “Well?”

Trailing his fingers up Ratchets arm slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away, Drift tentatively rested his hand on Ratchet’s head and pulled him in to bunt their helm crests together. Something in his shoulders relaxed. “Just that.”

“Really? Just that?” Ratchet pressed back gently, then reached up to stroke Drift’s finials. “You can have more than that, you know.”

“I didn’t want to presume.” His engine purred and he bunted Ratchet again. “We  _ will _ be okay. I forgive you, and I didn’t want you mistaking my being busy for holding a grudge.”

“Thank you for clarifying.” Ratchet hadn’t been worrying about that yet, but then, he’d been busy too. “I’d expected you both to stay angry with me longer, honestly. I have to say, I’m happy to have been wrong.”

“I’m still angry,” Drift said in a tone that didn’t sound angry at all. “But I also forgive you.”

“You’re talking to me instead of avoiding me, which is more than I’d hoped for so soon. And Rodimus…” 

“Hmm?” Drift licked, then gently bit Ratchet’s chevron, as though re-familiarizing himself with the action. “What about him?”

“He — this is going to sound bad, but I can’t think of a better way to say it — he impressed me,” Ratchet said. He’d still been  _ Rodimus,  _ but also mature and sensitive in a way Ratchet didn’t expect from him. It had been a strange but pleasant surprise. 

“Rodimus is a Prime. They tend to be impressive.” Drift bit again, gently, then pulled back. “As much as I’d like to continue this, we have a ship to finish stripping.”

“Yes. Though if everything is taken care of on the ground, don’t wait to take off on my account. Interior stripping is just as easy to do in space.” They didn’t have a heading, but maybe just getting moving again would help Drift feel a little less torn about the Circle. “By the way,” Ratchet reached into his subspace for the datapads he’d just hidden there, “I have something for you.”

With slightly shaky hands, Drift took them. He turned on the top one and Ratchet heard his fans hitch. “I’d hoped… I guess Soundwave didn’t see a point in locking me out.”

Soundwave. Of course he would know who Digress was; he knew everything. If he was involved in maintaining the structure of the university they’d set up — and it was just the sort of thing he’d be good at and interested in — then it would have been easy to alter or remove Drift’s access. “Maybe he hoped you’d get yourself in trouble over it,” Ratchet shrugged.

“Maybe. Or hoped to use it as bait to catch me when I was still an independent.” He sighed, turning off the datapad and subspacing the stack. “Back to work. We need to get these ships out of the Temptorians’ way.”

“We do. It will be interesting to see what the supplies are like on the other ship. Based on the equipment and materials I found here, it looks like this place saw a lot of patients. Makes me wonder if this was their primary medbay, or their only one.”

Drift shrugged. He took Ratchet’s hand and led the way out of the ship where Skids and a few others were waiting.  _ “Leading Light’s _ ready to take off when we are.”

“Are we leaving the planet entirely then? Or not quite?”

“Grateful as they are for our help,” Drift said, “the Temptorians don’t want us to linger. I can’t blame them, and at least they aren’t trying to kill us.”

“There is that. It’s a nice change.” But Ratchet couldn’t think of a reason to linger. “I’ll wait to start on the other ship until we’re out of here. Who’s flying these things?”

“I’m not up for dogfighting, but I can get that one,” Drift nodded to the bigger of the two ships, “into orbit. We can dock the smaller one to it before launch.”

“Right,” Skids nodded and trotted up the entry ramp. 

Drift gave Ratchet’s hand a squeeze. “Go get settled. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

He did have patient data to sort out and integrate into their database. “See you later?” Ratchet asked hopefully.

“Yep.”

With one last smile, Ratchet walked over and boarded the waiting shuttle. It was crowded with mechs and crates of supplies taken from the base. He wasn’t sorry to see the surface of the planet falling away beneath them as it took off, returning to the  _ Lost Light. _

.

.

.

He hadn’t had a chance to recharge yet but it was only one skipped shift, and the two ships’ medbays were entirely cleared of anything he thought he would find useful. They were far from done, of course. There were any number of things that could be salvaged from a pair of ships like that, from engine parts to the crews’ personal effects, but Ratchet didn’t need to be involved in that process. He had repairs to work on.

First Aid did good work. The medbay was clearer when Ratchet reported for his next shift. The bodies hadn’t been delivered yet, but they could wait until they had an empty medbay again anyway. The crates of salvaged parts could wait too. Ratchet picked a mech and started fabricating.

He spent most of the shift making pieces — struts, actuators, joint assemblies — rather than installing them. While he was focusing on one patient at a time, he went ahead and made extras of the pieces he would need for others while he had the equipment out. It slowed him down for now, but would save time in the long run. It didn’t hurt that Hoist did offer to help, and they managed to complete several of the pieces they would need to finish the prisoners’ repairs as well.

About halfway through his shift, Drift let himself into the medbay and waited patiently by the door to be acknowledged. Ratchet held up a hand to let him know he’d seen him, then finished demolding the pieces of the shoulder joint he was currently assembling and arranged them on his workbench before addressing him. “Hi. Need me to get you something?”

“I thought I could help scrub and sort those parts you got from the ships,” Drift offered with a hopeful smile.

“There’s more than enough of it to do, if you’re really that bored,” Ratchet teased. Joking aside, he suspected Drift wasn’t bored so much as trying to keep busy. If he was here looking for a distraction from his own thoughts, and maybe even company, Ratchet wasn’t going to turn him away. “I can get you set up over there, if you like.”

“I would,” Drift said, following Ratchet when he got up. “Thanks.”

He sat there for awhile, methodically (and meditatively, Ratchet suspected) working his way through the box of components in front of him. Every time Ratchet looked over, he saw the stack of dirty parts slowly shrinking, while neat piles of cleaned ones grew beside him. He did seem to be slowing though; one time Ratchet snuck a glance and saw him just staring at the polishing cloth in his hand, and shortly afterward he noticed Drift had leaned back against the wall, propping himself up to doze.

“Should I wake him up and send him to his berth?” Hoist asked, concern evident in his voice.

“He’s not in anyone’s way there,” Ratchet said. He might not get back to sleep if they disturbed him now, and he clearly needed the rest, even if it wasn’t the best recharge in the world. With Ratchet and Hoist both moving around, the noise of the fabricators going, and a soldier’s understandable paranoia, he couldn’t be deeper than a very light doze. But then, if he didn’t fall all the way into powersave, then he wouldn’t have nightmares to fight (literally, as Ratchet had learned) his way out of.

“I’ll nudge him on my way out if he’s still sleeping.”

It must have been what he needed, since he did stay snoozing against the wall right up to the end of Ratchet’s shift. “I’ll be taking him with me,” Ratchet told Ambulon when he came in, edging around Drift to stay  _ well _ away from the sleeping warrior, “though I’m afraid I’ve left a bit of a mess for you with all this,” he gestured to the fabrication equipment.

“I’d just have to haul it all back again once you were gone, if you put it all away,” he said bluntly. “What’s the most needed?”

“Hoist and I made good headway on the internal pieces, but we have a lot of limbs to bulk out and cover. Nothing’s currently hot, except the one cooling rack there,” Ratchet pointed to a series of heavy support struts, which were no longer glowing but definitely still radiating warmth. “We’re in good shape on fresh materials, so you can ignore the salvage for now. Drift just wanted something to do before he nodded off.”

“I’ll get them stowed to finish cleaning later then.” 

Of course he made no move to do so right away, with Drift right there next to them. Ratchet walked over, reaching out slowly so as not to startle Drift. “My shift’s over,” he said quietly. “Time to relocate you.”

Drift twitched, hand jerking toward his sword, but didn’t make it all the way there before he interrupted his own reflex. His optics blinked on. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He reached out and took Ratchet’s hand, getting his legs under him. “I can finish scrubbing the things in a little bit.” 

Ratchet frowned. Drift’s motions were sluggish. They were too deliberate to be called awkward, but also too deliberate to be called  _ natural.  _ “I’ve got a better idea.” He let go of Drift’s hand and moved an arm around behind his shoulders, then swept him right back up off his feet and into his arms. “Come with me.”

Drift’s squawk faded, flailing in surprise. Limbs and swords momentarily went everywhere before he settled, wrapping his arms around Ratchet’s shoulders to steady himself without protest. He tucked his head onto Ratchet’s chest. “Okay.”

Ignoring the look Ambulon was very carefully not giving them, Ratchet traversed the short distance to his habsuite, easily carrying Drift the whole way. Pinging his door to open, then shut, behind him, Ratchet brought him over to his berth and set him down on it, only letting go long enough to climb up beside him. “You’re not okay,” he stroked over Drift’s armor gently, imparting as much comfort as he could, “are you?”

“I’m really not,” Drift answered with an astounding amount of honesty.

Ratchet wished he could fix it, but he knew he couldn’t. “Tell me about it?” he offered anyway.

“They weren’t on Temptoria.” Drift took the chance to burrow into Ratchet’s arms. “Something terrible is happening to them. When I try to find them, it’s like the stars are going out. A supernova, then gone. And the dreams… Shockwave and Deadlock and the whole  _ mess _ in my head…” His engine hitched. 

“You haven’t been able to recharge properly since the battle, have you?” Ratchet already knew the answer. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Stay with me?”

Good; something easy. “I can do that,” Ratchet promised, holding Drift close. “And if you want a script to help suppress the nightmares, I can do that as well. I’ll prescribe something anyway, if you’re not able to do at least a little more defragging than you’ve managed so far.”

Drift’s engine made a noise of disgust, but he didn’t protest. “Can you talk while I try to recharge? Your aura and your voice helped a lot, in the medbay.”

“I can talk, sure.” He couldn’t do a damned thing about any “aura” though. Drift would just have to imagine whatever he wanted on that score. “Is there a topic you’d prefer to hear me ramble on about?”

“Anything,” he murmured, systems already trying to cycle down into recharge.

Anything… “We’re going to be busy for another couple of cycles, minimum, fabricating parts and limbs. I’d say something about trying not to lose them, or at least bringing them back if they get blown off, to make repairs easier, but I know it wouldn’t make any difference.” It wasn’t like Ratchet really blamed the mechs who’d come back missing them. The only truly stupid injury in the whole lot was Swerve, and he probably  _ would  _ say something about the idiocy of Brainstorm making insane weapons for insane helicopters who didn’t see a problem with handing them off to bartenders. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to broach the subject of repairs for the Decepticons in the brig as well. Secondary repairs, that is, not battle-related damage. First Aid put together a list of everything we’ll need to find or fabricate to repair that,” and had done an excellent job of it too, “but a lot of them could benefit from a serious overhaul, and that will require parts too.” So many nonstandard parts… “I should go down to the brig later, I need to ask Ragefire what he wants us to do about his optics.”

“Hmmm?” Drift made an encouraging sound, his barely-not-recharge undisturbed by Ratchet’s choice of subject.

“He’s got a completely busted one — lens, inner mechanisms, all of it — but of course his remaining optic is red. That means he’s got a choice to make: either wait to be repaired while we fabricate a new optic to match the existing one, or let us replace both with newer models. We’ve got gold replacements premade, besides the blue most of the crew has.”

“Fort Maxz has red…” Drift murmured.

“Fort Max is just a little bit bigger than Ragefire,” Ratchet chuckled. “His optics wouldn’t fit in his head.”

“Kay…” He snuggled closer to Ratchet. “Doesn’t want blue.”

“I’d assumed as much.” Ratchet looked down at Drift, curious. He wasn’t going to get a better opening to ask. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“Yea… Dunno why.” Drift’s nasal ridge wrinkled. “Didn’ like mirrors much. Chose red…”

_ Chose.  _ So the red optics he’d had as Deadlock had been something Drift had chosen himself, to replace his original gold. “We’ll be making a lot of red optics soon,” Ratchet said, thinking not only of the prisoners, but of the members of the crew with red optics (besides Fort Max) who would benefit from having replacements available in their color. “You could put your name on a pair, if you wanted.”

Drift’s sleepy field flickered with  _ yes, _ but he wrinkled his nasal ridge again, and this time his brow crinkled in worried thought along with it. “Too sleep,” he announced quietly. “Later…”

“Okay.” Ratchet patted his shoulder. “I’ll ask again later.”

“Kay.”

What else could he talk about in the meantime? “I know I don’t have to tell you about our new heading,” Ratchet said, sure that Drift had been involved in choosing it in the first place, “but those parts you were cleaning… It would be nice if we could get through them all to at least determine what’s worth keeping and what can just be unloaded with the rest.” Hopefully unloaded, since there was no guarantee of the nearest port having a buyer for their scrap. Ratchet didn’t even know what the nearest port was, just that there was one relatively close and they’d set course for it shortly after leaving Temptoria. “Obviously the repairs take priority though, so we might wind up stuck hauling it around for awhile…”

He kept up a soft stream of words, jumping from one topic to the next as they occurred to him, from shop talk to idle gossip to thoughts on the last chapter he’d read in  _ Clockwork Criminal.  _ Drift stopped responding with even nonverbal sounds after a while, and slowly Ratchet let his monologue peter out. Drift didn’t stir, and Ratchet let himself breathe a very soft sigh of relief. Drift was finally asleep.

Ratchet wasn’t sleepy enough to join him, though. All that talking had his processor actively seeking something to do, but he didn’t want to disturb Drift. Maybe he could get out a datapad and read, as long as he moved carefully… 

Drift’s only reaction as he reached into his subspace was to cling to Ratchet’s armor and gently bite one edge of it. Ratchet smiled fondly at the physical indication he was relaxed and comfortable, then powered up the datapad.

He’d chosen Drift’s collection of writings over finishing  _ Clockwork Criminal,  _ intending to look up the piece he’d said mentioned colors. Annoyingly (though not unusual, given Drift’s “filing” system), searching for the title in the table of contents didn’t turn up the article in question. He tried making the datapad search the files themselves, but  _ super _ annoyingly, the keywords “Adaptus” and “slave” showed up at least once in two thirds of the entire datapad. 

Finally he tried the term “color theory” instead, and got a much more manageable list. One result was an instructional/religious text written by Gleam. One was a forum discussion with someone called Brightness talking about moving away from poetry to try visual art. The last was labeled only with the date Drift had downloaded and saved it, and proved to be the file he was looking for.

Sort of.

It was  _ also _ a forum discussion, in addition to the article’s text:

__

> _Digress [1127 posts] EDITING HELP PLEASE  
>  _
> 
> _ Looking for a beta or three. I’ve got a thing I want to release for public download. Anyone willing to look it over and offer suggestions? _
> 
> _ LiquidBug [349 posts] Re: EDITING HELP PLEASE _
> 
> _ Ouch. You know it won’t stay up very long, right?  _
> 
> _ Digress [1127 posts] Re: EDITING HELP PLEASE _
> 
> _ I know. But it needs to be said.  _ **_I_ ** _ need to say it. _
> 
> _ HeroBot [1009 posts] Re: EDITING HELP PLEASE _
> 
> _ Yeah. We all get that. I don’t think any of us hasn’t tried at least once. I’m minoring in grammar. I can do some proofreading. You’re religion and philosophy tho right? You’re going to have to get someone else to help you with idea polishing. _
> 
> _ Zebrawl_Gamer [403 posts] Re: EDITING HELP PLEASE _
> 
> _ I’m doing game design. That overlaps in weird ways with philosophy. I can help! _
> 
> _ Digress [1127] Re: EDITING HELP PLEASE _
> 
> _ This isn’t extra credit Zebs._

__  


The use of pseudonyms made it impossible to know who each of the mechs in the conversation were in real life and whether they had survived the war. Ratchet focused instead on the back and forth, getting a sense of who they were by how they talked to each other. He hadn’t spent much time looking at the discussions before, but reading this one he could see an incredible friendliness and willingness to help each other in any way they could, along with an almost sobering acknowledgement that sometimes that wasn’t much. 

The timestamps on the replies jumped ahead a couple of times, indicating Digress hadn’t been able to get all of his betas at once. Eventually though, he’d found what he was looking for, and over the course of three posts, posted his first draft:

__

> _Digress [1127] Re: EDITING HELP PLEASE  
>  _
> 
> **_Adaptus Did Not Mark You A Slave_ **
> 
> _ In the beginning, there is darkness, and then your spark synchronizes with your frame and you power up. Or you claw your way out of the ground, emerging from darkness into the light for the first time. You stare at the cacophony of sight all new to you and your newly awakened processor struggles to comprehend and categorize the dizzying amount of data. Darkness is easy, and the opposite is light. But that isn’t all, it can’t be all, and eventually you realize that that which is neither light nor dark is  _ **_red._ **
> 
> _ That’s it. That’s all. Everything else, the rainbow of colors you now recognize come later, from others pointing them out and telling you the words for them. It’s not because you’re dumb. Everyone went through this, high caste and low. Forged and constructed cold. This is the common experience of our species in regards to color… _

__  


Digress went on to explain the history of color development, as outlined by the color words in older and older languages, citing his sources for his tale as he went. Yellow and green were added next to the Cybertronian collective understanding, then blue, then brown, then orange and purple, then all the other the words for the array of shades they had in their language now. Woven into his narrative was how this was interpreted by the Functionalists (also with sources cited). Summed up: to the Functionalists, because red was the first color, it was  _ primitive. _ One of the manifestations of this was in how the (modern, Digress was specific on that point) Cult of Adaptus’ Functionalist dogma held that mechs with red or yellow optics were less evolved than those of the same alt mode with blue optics (purple and orange both being considered shades of red). But, for all that this was what the Functionalists wanted mechs to believe, to justify holding the mostly red, orange, and yellow opticked masses in servitude, this was not the truth. 

Ratchet didn’t even need the examples Digress had cited to know that there was nothing physically more “advanced” in the optical mechanisms or the brain modules of mechs with blue optics; his background in medicine told him what rubbish that was, just as logic complained about the fallacy of claiming colors that were more recently differentiated and given their own words — purple and orange — should be grouped behind blue, which had come first.

The thing that was harder for Ratchet to get behind wasn’t the way Digress refuted the idea that optic color was a viable way to judge or classify people. As well annotated as the whole thing was, there weren’t many concrete examples of the Functionalists actually saying anything that clearly illustrated that prejudice. Ratchet got distracted partway through reading the article, trying to remember times where he’d encountered it. Looking back, it was one of those things that had largely gone unspoken, but he could think of several mechs he’d known back then who had thought that way.

He almost found himself wishing he could comment in the thread, to point out that this wasn’t an explicit Functionalist tenet, and then was grateful he hadn’t been able to make an idiot of himself when he read further and saw Digress had addressed that after all. He wasn’t just encouraging his audience not to think less of themselves based on the color of their optics, but to recognize where the fallacy was being enforced in unspoken, insidious ways. 

Prepared for it, Ratchet managed not to twitch when Digress finally got to the common Decepticon refrain to  _ rise up. _ To reject these fallacies, to reject the government that treated them as lesser based on such a thing.

He went on to describe how other systems, other faiths’ interpreted colors — from the Primalist association of red to life and death and marking healers in the colors, to the Spectralist interpretation of red with new beginnings and blue with death… Interesting, and relevant to his point regardless of the beliefs of the reader. It didn’t matter that Ratchet was an atheist, because even without belief in any of the faiths described, he could acknowledge the existence of a number and variety of interpretations of color throughout their history as fact.

Coming to the end of the article, Ratchet saw that it had been the subject of a lot of discussion in the thread following Digress’ post. The Decepticons dissected every point with relish, offering hints on how to make the arguments stronger or more impactful. One, a math student, said he’d been working on the same thing, from a statistical viewpoint, and he’d be honored if Digress would include his work. Another, a mech who produced vocal performances, offered to record the finished article as a vocal track, to better reach mechs who couldn’t read.

“Axe!” Drift’s sudden shout jerked Ratchet out of his reading. “No, no, nononono…” He clawed at Ratchet’s armor like he could actually damage him that way (had Deadlock had claws? Ratchet couldn’t remember…). “Shockwave!”

“Drift!” Ratchet was already holding Drift, but he didn’t want to panic him more by holding tighter. He used his grip to shake him, gently, not restrict him. “Wake up, you’re dreaming. Wake up!”

“Axe! No. I’m coming!” Drift wrenched himself out of Ratchet’s hands, pulling a knife from subspace even as he finally woke, light coming back on his his optics. “Ratchet?”

“Here. Here and not hurt,” he said before Drift could start worrying about that. “Back with me now?”

The knife disappeared. “Yeah. Sorry.” Drift’s frame was trembling as he laid back down not quite in Ratchet’s arms, as though not sure he would be welcomed. Ratchet reached out and gently drew him back in. That was all he needed to come willingly, curling against Ratchet’s armor, still shaking.

“You got a couple of joors that time,” Ratchet said, stroking his plating soothingly.

“Suppose I can function on that, if I need to.” He was relaxing quickly under Ratchet’s touch though, optics dimming. “Sorry for waking you.”

“You didn’t. I was reading.” Picking up the datapad from where he’d dropped it, Ratchet showed Drift the screen. “It’s a good piece.”

Drift blinked, optics brightening as he took in the words on the screen. “I didn’t realize I’d kept the rough draft version,” he finally said.

“I was surprised by the format at first, but I sort of like getting to see the feedback. They asked a lot of the questions I wanted to, and this way I get to see your answers, even the ones that didn’t make it into the final draft.” Ratchet hadn’t gotten to the final draft yet, but he’d been coming up on a block of text he’d assumed was another draft when Drift had cried out. “You put a lot of work into this.”

“I had a Cause,” Drift said simply. “And once Gleam had me straightened out, I really thought this was how we were going to win. For a while, at least. I was angry, and not exactly fully civilized. I knew we’d have to fight for it, looked forward to it, but… ” he trailed off.

“But then the fighting got completely out of hand.” 

“Didn’t think so at the time. All of us expected a war, we weren’t surprised when we had one. And, well, you’ll see when you get to the end of the thread.” Drift sighed. “It’s not encouraging, but it was a tradition we had.”

Perhaps it had been naive or blindly optimistic, but Ratchet hadn’t thought a war was inevitable at first. He didn’t say so. Drift already knew, and it wasn’t worth arguing about now. “I guess I should finish reading then. You should try to get some more rest. Do you want to plug in this time?”

“Should.” He extended a cable. “Would you mind?”

Ratchet went ahead and connected them both to the berth, then wrapped his arm back around Drift. “Good?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Lack of defrag had obviously been more of an issue than lack of power — Ratchet trusted that even if he couldn’t sleep he’d plugged into his berth before  _ now _ — but it still helped. “Hopefully no more nightmares,” Drift murmured.

“Imagine me chasing them off with a wrench if they start,” Ratchet suggested. 

He felt Drift laugh softly in his arms. “I’ll do that.” He cycled down into recharge, more easily this time. Ratchet still waited a couple of kliks to start reading again to make sure he wouldn’t disturb him.

His guess proved correct about the long block of text when he got to it — Digress had posted a new version of his article, updated to reflect the critiques in the comments above it. It did incorporate the budding statistician’s work, but in such a way that acknowledged that the paper’s intended audience wouldn’t be swayed by numbers. The result was a much tighter argument, and a more powerful emotional impact.

And it sparked off a new round of comments, compliments and criticism. There were long, uninterrupted segments of the thread that was just Digress and Voiceover discussing the particulars of how the audio version should sound. Then a third draft. Ratchet didn’t see many differences between that version and the second, except perhaps some grammar and glyph correction.

There wasn’t a fourth draft posted. In the posts following the third draft, Digress confirmed he was happy with what he had, and moved on to hammering out an abstract to go with it. He got a number of suggestions for that as well, including two members of the discussion straight up writing their own versions of what they thought the abstract should look like and posting them in their entirety. When Digress finally posted his own, Ratchet saw he’d borrowed some points and phrases from those two contributors, and put his own flare on things.

It was good. Ratchet would have thought nothing of seeing it in a university publication before the war.

After the round of compliments and further critiques, the thread fell silent. The timestamp on the final entry was several decacycles after the previous:

__

> _Digress [1127] Re: EDITING HELP PLEASE  
>  _
> 
> _ It stayed up for one cycle, three breems, two kliks. Downloaded 82 times. _
> 
> _ Thread locked._

__  


Ratchet blinked and read those numbers again. All that time and effort, and it had barely been up more than a cycle. Fewer than a hundred people had seen it.

No wonder the Decepticons had been convinced words weren’t enough.

Drift shifted with a whimper, and Ratchet turned his attention to soothing him. Setting the datapad aside, he bagan petting his finials and (for lack of anything else in his whirring thoughts) started describing one of the wrenches in the medbay, and Drift quieted.

.

.

.


	14. Chapter 14

.

.

.

He’d learned the mech with the two mismatched shoulder actuators was named Dirtcloud. He wasn’t brave or stubborn, and didn’t want to be put back in a cell with Blip now that he was conscious. When Ratchet had brought him up out of stasis, having rebuilt both arms and shoulder mounts so that he had standard actuators, he’d been very quick to try and trade information for a separate cell. It was just his bad luck that he didn’t actually know anything that hadn’t already been pulled out of the two ships the crew was still in the process of stripping of anything useful.

“What’s your policy on cell assignments?” Ratchet asked Fort Max anyway once they were out of earshot. “He doesn’t have anything to bargain with, but he seems genuinely afraid of Blip.”

Fortress Maximus didn’t change his frame language by so much as an inch (they were still visible to some of the prisoners) but he offered a faint feeling of helplessness in his field. “I don’t think there is an official policy for this ship. I’m not sure anyone expected us to have this many long term prisoners. My own personal preference would be to arrange things to minimize altercations. I don’t trust myself to go in there to break things up without breaking someone,” he admitted with frank honesty. “Blip seems to be a troublemaker. If your patient isn’t the only one who has issues with him, I may have to pull him out and put him in solitary.”

“I’ll let you know if anyone else complains,” Ratchet said, though he didn’t plan to ask any leading questions. “You have wound up with a lot more to handle down here than anticipated.”

“Did you want to pull someone else out for repairs?” Fort Max sidestepped Ratchet’s observation. “Red Alert wants to minimize prisoner transfers because of the risk, but I know you had two more set aside for further immediate repairs.”

“I’ll call down an escort to appease Red Alert when I take the next one back to the medbay,” Ratchet said with a minimal huff. Prisoner transfers were a potential weak point, yes, but he was (as usual) completely blowing things out of proportion. A single secured prisoner wasn’t going to suddenly break loose, free his compatriots, and start a riot. Ratchet was willing to accommodate him up to a point, but not necessarily happy about it. “I need more equipment for Silverstorm’s repairs than I can bring down here, and the same goes for Ragefire. Which cells are they in? I need to talk to them both before I decide who to start with.”

“Cells three and four,” For Max answered readily. “Ragefire’s alone in three now. Silverstorm’s crowded in with Nightraider, Barrage, Blueray and Weasel. Once you’re gone, I’ll rearrange them so they have some more room. Maybe put Nightraider in with Dirtcloud. That’ll keep Blip from only having him to pick on for now.”

“Thanks. I’ll start with Ragefire. He’s still in stasis,” Ratchet said, indicating he would need to go into the cell and wake him in order to talk to him. “If you would do the honors?”

Fortress Maximus nodded and led the way back into the cellblock. Cell one was empty, reserved for Autobot troublemakers who warranted brig time. The other five cells each had between three and five prisoners in them. Ratchet didn’t flinch when several mechs got up and started demanding they be released, while others cowered from they mech they thought was going to be their interrogator. Fort Max was going to have his work cut out for him keeping a group this large under control. Ratchet had done his best to have nothing to do with brigs, prisons, and POW camps, but hadn’t always been successful, and he knew it was sometimes a delicate balance between keeping cells conflict-free and breaking up cliques that would make more insidious trouble.

As promised, Ragefire was alone in his cell, in stasis and laying on his gurney. Fort Max went in first and cuffed him to the berth just in case before allowing Ratchet in. A fair enough precaution, even if Ratchet doubted this particular prisoner would be moving much once he was awake. Besides the optic that needed to be replaced, there was still a fair amount of damage to his neural relays that hadn’t been dealt with yet, though he did have a functioning vocalizer again.

Because of that neural damage, Ratchet had installed a temporary access port where he’d spliced in before. He used it now to reverse the medical stasis, making sure to upload a pain block at the same time so Ragefire wouldn’t wake up screaming. Not in pain, at least. A couple of his compatriots had come out of stasis screaming in terror.

Ragefire didn’t scream at all, though. He just jerked back as far as the restraints would let him with a gasp, then settled. Again he pulled on his shield of defiance, but it was thin to the point of cracking.  _ “What do you want, Autobot?” _

“To talk to you about your treatment options,” Ratchet answered out loud, though he didn’t disconnect. “I replaced your vocalizer when you first came in, but you still have other injuries that need to be repaired.”

“Yeah?” Ratchet felt the mech trying to shore up his firewalls as he switched to his repaired voice. “Treatment options, huh? That what it’s called now?”

“It’s what I’m calling it,” Ratchet shrugged. He wasn’t here to interrogate them, whatever they believed. “You took a hit that damaged your spinal strut and caused errors in your neural net. I can fix it,” he said confidently, “but since the procedure requires working around some of your firewalls, I wanted to talk to you about it first. That, and ask what you’d prefer I do about your optics.”

“I’m not taking down my firewalls,” the mech insisted stubbornly.

“Do you want to walk again?” Ratchet countered. “You’ve got interrupted connections between your processor and the rest of your frame.”

Ragefire mentally reeled from that information, his first reaction being  _ denial, the medic/interrogator’s lying, it’s a trick!  _ Ratchet waited patiently as he tried moving; his limbs twitched, his hands flexed… but slowly, sluggishly, because of the damage. Finally, he sagged in defeat.  _ Hopelessness _ flickered through his field. “What do you want?” he asked again, this time without the veil of defiance.

“Your informed consent,” Ratchet said, deliberately misunderstanding him. Ragefire thought he had to trade something in exchange for being repaired, but as far as Ratchet, as far as the  _ Autobots,  _ were concerned, they were the ones who owed him this particular procedure, having been the ones to cause the injury in the first place. And Ratchet  _ certainly _ hadn’t done this to coerce something from him. “And to know whether you’d prefer to wait until we can fabricate an optic to match the one you currently have, or have us replace both in another color.”

This time Ragefire’s answer was a wave of unintentionally projected  _ confusion. _ “What color?” he asked dumbly. 

“Gold. Or, in the interest of full disclosure, blue.” The mech sneered, as expected. “Those are all we have at the moment in your size.”

“And how much is fabricating a new one going to cost me versus taking your castoffs?” Ragefire scoffed.

“The only cost is the time it takes to get around to making it, which could be a while since fabricating non-essential parts for prisoner repairs tends to get bumped down the list. And no, I’m not saying that as a threat,” Ratchet sighed, frustrated by Ragefire’s understandable suspicion. “I’m just stating it as a fact. It’s regulation to repair battle damage in prisoners, but only life threatening conditions get priority.”

“Gold, then,” he answered like it was a challenge.

“Okay.” Ratchet wasn’t sure he believed him, but he could ask again to confirm once they got past the other hurdle. “And am I installing those at the same time I’m repairing the damage to your neural net?”

“You just want my firewalls out of the way,” the Decepticon accused. “You’re going to take everything, or wipe me or… or reprogram me.”

“I’m not going to do any of those things.” Partly because he couldn’t, didn’t know how, but more importantly because it was  _ wrong.  _ “I don’t need to go anywhere near your memory or personality core. The only firewalls I need to get past are the ones preventing me from running diagnostics and directing your self repair.”

Ragefire shook, torn between the desire,  _ need, _ to be able to move again and suspicion of Ratchet’s motive and offer. “Fine,” he finally spat.  _ You’ll do what you want anyway, _ the sullen thought leaked through his firewalls and down the connection to Ratchet.

Ratchet didn’t react to it. “In that case, I’m going to put you back in stasis and transport you to the medbay, where I will repair your neural issues and install gold optics to replace your current one. Sound reasonable?”

“I said it was fine,” he snapped. Almost sulkily, the outermost shell of firewalls — those protecting the processor’s interface with his body — dropped and Ragefire’s consciousness retreated to suspiciously watch what Ratchet did with the access.

Which, for the moment, was nothing; informed consent on the record and patient cooperation obtained, Ratchet sent a wordless affirmative over the connection and reinitiated stasis. He looked up to find Fort Max watching impassively. “He’ll be coming with me, but I still need to talk to Silverstorm before I go.”

“He needs to stay in the cell until then,” Fort Max said firmly. “We’re not taking chances.”

“Understood.” Unnecessary, in Ratchet’s opinion, but it wasn’t his place to argue. Fort Max had to appease Red Alert too, and potentially needed to do certain things for his own peace of mind. He exited the cell and waited until Ragefire was securely locked inside before heading down the block to the next cell. “Silverstorm?” he called though the bars. It was a little crowded in there. “Where are you?”

The knot of ‘Cons in the back shifted, then summarily ejected one of their members to stand awkwardly at the front of the cell. “Here?”

“Hi. Did you know you’ve had some very inconsistent repairs over the last few vorns?” Complete with incomplete records; Silverstorm was one of the mechs Ratchet hadn’t been able to find very much information on in the data he’d pulled from the Decepticon ship’s medbay. “You wouldn’t happen to have a personal copy of your medical history, would you?”

Red optics narrowed. “Maybe. What’s in it for me?”

“Free assessment of just what sort of shape you’re in.”

Purple and silver armor shifted as the mech adjusted his stance. He glared suspiciously at Ratchet, thinking. “Ain’t sure what good that is,” he finally said.

“It comes with a prognosis for how long you’ve got until something vital gives out,” Ratchet said bluntly. “And what it would entail to fix.”

Not so much as a flicker of surprise. So the mech knew he wasn’t in good shape, though he might not know exactly what was wrong. A little of a calculating glint entered his optics. “You trading repairs instead of torturing us?”

“Actually,” since this wasn’t related to the battle on Temptoria, “yes. You give me any medical records you have, and I come up with a treatment plan. From there, you can either negotiate to have me or one of the other medics on board carry them out, or hold on to the diagnostics until you find another medic willing and capable to perform them.” 

Narrowed optics narrowed further. “I don’t want you plugging in to get them,” he counter offered.

“I can bring you a clean dataslug.”

“Fine.”

Ratchet produced a dataslug from his subspace, but handed it to Fort Max rather than trying to pass it through himself. “It’s blank,” he said, for both their benefit. “Have him make a copy of his medical history, then send it to me.” 

“I’ll check it and send it up.” Fortress Maximus nodded, accepting the disk. It looked tiny in his hands.

Deciding that meant they were done for now, Silverstorm climbed up on one of the bunks to sulk, hiding as best he could in the bare cell.

“I’ll just call for that escort and take Ragefire now,” Ratchet said. “Where would you like me to wait?”

“Guard station is fine.”

Together, they returned to the blast-shielded alcove between the cell block and the door to the rest of the ship, with banks of monitors showing each cell from multiple angles, scrolling with autogenerated transliterations of every noise and spoken conversation in the cellblock. There was only one chair, and Fort Max left it for Ratchet as he dug out a pair of datapads: one to test the dataslug to make sure it was clean (because Red Alert was beyond paranoid) and the other to fill out the datawork required to pass a prisoner a piece of computer equipment, even one so innocuous.

Ratchet went ahead and took a seat, using the brig’s terminal to send his request for an escort. It felt restrictive, following protocol so closely, but pissing off Red Alert wasn’t conducive to his goals. Any of them. Plus, this way he didn’t have to figure out who to send the request to himself.

Fort Max had finished scanning the empty dataslug, but not the datawork, when someone pinged and the door out of the brig opened. 

“Someone call security?” Drift joked, lowering his voice to something like Ironhide’s.

“I did,” Ratchet said, raising a hand to wave. “Wasn’t expecting  _ you, _ though.”

Drift shrugged. Getting almost a full shift of only occasionally interrupted recharge had done much to restore him. If Ratchet didn’t know better, he’d think there was nothing wrong. “Someone has to pick up the slack when Ultra Magnus is recharging. Assuming he is recharging,” he smiled. “He could just be locked in his room compiling lists of arguments to get out of refereeing the lob ball games.”

“Since that would be a complete and utter waste of time, I sincerely hope he’s recharging.” Rodimus was not going to let Ultra Magnus get out of participating in the 4L, one way or another. Ratchet stood, and Fort Max led the way to Ragefire’s cell. “At least this is something easy.”

“Walking with you is never hard,” Drift proclaimed. Ratchet saw some of the prisoners pull away, glaring sullenly at Drift as a way of pretending they weren’t cowering from him. Drift’s optics shifted, aware of them, but he didn’t comment. 

Ratchet held off on saying anything else too, settling for a smile until they were back out of the cell block with their transfer. “He’ll be with us for at least a cycle,” he told Fort Max on their way out. “We’ll keep you posted.”

“Noted.”

“He seems less haunted now that he’s got prisoners to look after,” Drift commented as the door down to the brig closed behind them. “Rodimus forgot, but his case is coming up for review again in a bit, and if Roddy and Rung and him all agree, he’ll be allowed to start frequenting the social areas of the ship again.”

“If he’s up to it, it would probably be good for him. It’s nice that having work to do is helping him, but I’ve been told taking too much refuge in work doesn’t really solve any problems.” Ratchet grinned conspiratorially. “Never did believe that one, though.”

“Downtime is a fairy tale?”

“It sure seems that way sometimes.” Hard to believe less than a decacycle ago he’d been struggling to find things to do. “He said to go ahead and install the gold optics, by the way.”

Drift’s shoulders tensed. “Gold’s a nice color,” he said noncommittally. Then he pulled on his most irritatingly vacant smile, “Awakening inspiration, intelligence. Creative, playful, optimistic and easygoing… That sound like our Decepticon guest?” 

“Can’t say I know him very well, but no. Not really.” Ratchet didn’t stop walking, but he did slow his pace. “Which would be the worse violation? To go ahead because he said to when he didn’t mean it, or to not take him at his word?”

“Hmm…” Drift maneuvered in front of the gurney to walk backwards, examining Ragefire. “He looks pretty guarded and suspicious. Angry. But under it… practical. And also more guarded. I’d say if he actually told you to go ahead with the gold, it’s because he thinks being able to see is more important than his self image.”

“And just where the hell are you getting that from? He’s unconscious.”

“Why  _ Ratchet,” _ Drift gave him a syrupy version of the vacant grin, “you didn’t think your aura went  _ away _ just because you’re in powersave, did you?”

Ratchet threw his head back with a sigh. “Fine, I asked for that one.” Auras indeed. Had Drift just made all that up? Or did he, like Perceptor said, actually have a way to know things that science couldn’t explain yet? He couldn’t have gotten observations like that from Ragefire’s utterly quiescent EM field. “Not wanting to be vulnerable is a better reason to say yes than being afraid of what we’d do if he said no, at least.” 

Drift sidestepped and let the gurney pass him so he could fall back into step with Ratchet. “You’re being very conscientious with him,” he remarked. “I know it’s Autobot policy not to change the optic color of a patient — regardless of faction — but you and I both know it isn’t required you give him an option other than wait until he’s traded back.”

“As far out as we are? Who knows how long that will be?” Ratchet shook his head. “We can do better than the bare minimum required, and we should.”

“Wasn’t a criticism.” The medbay doors swooshed open to admit the three of them. The bodies had been delivered while he was down in the brig and Ratchet was grateful they’d be taking care of Ragefire in ISO so he wouldn’t see them. There were still a couple stasis locked patients laid out on berths, the ones who’d come in missing so much of their frames they were still manufacturing parts for them, but for the most part the medbay was empty of live mechs. “Want me to hang out here?” Drift offered. “I can clean parts; if someone else needs me, I’ll get a comm.”

“I won’t be much fun once I get started on him,” Ratchet gestured to Ragefire, “but you’re welcome to stay.” He would be a little while setting up, and if Drift wanted to clean more parts once he was busy, Ratchet wasn’t going to say no to a little refuge in work. “I asked you about your optics last night,” he said carefully, wondering. “Do you remember?”

Drift blinked. “I think so. I thought I’d maybe dreamed it.”

“You didn’t.” Ratchet smiled. “Your answer was a little confusing.”

“How so?” Drift looked a little like he was trying to remember just what he’d said during that mostly-asleep conversation.

“Between your field, your face, and your words, I got yes, no, and ‘ask later’ when I asked if you wanted to change the ones you have now.”

“I suppose that means it’s no use saying I’m perfectly happy with blue,” Drift said ruefully. He took off the Great Sword so he could hop up onto one of the empty berths and sit. “It’s complicated.”

“Will you tell me?” Ratchet started getting out the parts and tools he needed to start on Ragefire’s repairs, but a good half of his attention was still on Drift. “I really would change them for you, if you wanted.”

“And you and Roddy are probably the only ones who wouldn’t take it as turning ‘Con again.” He sighed. “There’s a part of me — several parts — that would really like to take you up on it though.”

“Because the blue isn’t how you see yourself?” Even if it sounded like it was something he was willing to continue wearing because it made things easier.

“Yeah. I chose red.” He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Defensive posture, but Ratchet saw no other signs of real discomfort. “For a lot of reasons. Fitting in, sure. Most Decepticons had red, but,” he shrugged slightly. “Not everyone. Gleam’s were purple. For grief.”

Something about that seemed right, from what Ratchet knew of the mech through his writings. “So what did red say for you, personally? Besides the group identity.”

“Beginnings, rebirth, a cause I believed in.” He flashed a cocky smile. “Basic Spectralist symbolism.” 

“Which had just become an important part of your life as well,” Ratchet nodded. “And obviously still is.”

“I changed sides. I didn’t abandon my Cause.” The words were borderline treasonous, but Drift offered them with his trust. 

Ratchet accepted them at face value. Drift’s religion and his Cause were intertwined by their shared place in his history, and came from shared desires in his spark. “Two strong reasons to want the red back then — three, if you can use it for rebirth more than once.”

“It’s a symbol; it doesn’t wear out with repeated usage.” Drift’s defensive huddle loosened. “If we’re listing reasons, blue is a color of death. And since blue optics are brighter, it’s harder to change the backlighting to create the color I want to.”

“A color of death?” Well, maybe the red of his paint cancelled out the blue of his optics. Then again, as a medic, Ratchet did see a lot of death. Not that such symbolism was why he wore either color. “What do you change the backlighting for?” he asked, trying to think of a reason Drift would need to.

“It’s a…” He waved a hand vaguely. “A prayer. I shift them to match the mood around me.”

“Like your short meditations?” Ratchet frowned. “That must have taken some getting used to, when you first got the blue optics. They’ve got a narrower range they can express, on top of being completely different.”

“I know!” Drift’s frame language shifted again, leaning forward, as he  _ finally _ got to complain about it. “I kept getting it wrong in,” his engine hitched, but he forged on, “in Crystal City, especially when I was distracted. Millions of vorns of practice, then  _ viip!” _

When he was distracted? Was it really something Drift did that regularly? “You’d generated autonomic scripts for it and suddenly all the code was wrong,” Ratchet realized. “How long did it take you to rewrite it?”

“A while,” Drift hedged. “I still hadn’t gotten it all right…” His optics dimmed in thought. “I got most of it sorted by the time I met Roddy. I’m still occasionally blindsided when I walk into a mood I don’t have a script for, though.”

Wow. If he was still running into scenarios he didn’t have the exact updates worked out for yet, it had to be incredibly nuanced. “They shouldn’t have given you blue optics.”

Drift shrugged, deliberately casual. “At least they didn’t give me yellow. Feral as I was when I got there, if I’d woken up with my old optic color I would have berserked the moment I saw them.”

Ratchet would have thought blue would be worse than anything for Deadlock to suddenly wake up with. “But you did take back your old name at that time, didn’t you?”

“I introduced myself to the Autobot-like softspark who’d rescued me and wanted my help freeing some alien slaves as ‘Drift’,” Drift said with a smirk, then sobered. “Kept it after because for a while I  _ wanted _ Deadlock to be dead; if I didn't answer to his name, I could pretend he didn’t exist, wasn’t me. There were practical reasons too, like evading the DJD and nosey Autobots. Now it feels right again.”

“So what started as an old identity turned disguise then became a new identity.” Complete with new optics, though those still didn’t sit as well as the name. “You weren’t kidding about it being complicated.”

“Yeah.”

Ratchet left his workbench for a moment to walk around to Drift and take his hand. “Consider it an open-ended offer then, with no time limits and no obligations,” he said. “Whether you decide to eventually change them or keep the ones you have, what matters to me is that you’re comfortable with them.”

Drift’s expression softened into a shy smile. “That’s…” His engine hitched. “I appreciate that.” 

“Just keep them intact so I don’t have to replace them after a fight,” Ratchet said, squeezing the hand in his. “Though I’ll keep them as they are if I have to, unless you say otherwise.” And, though he didn’t tell Drift, he would put a note in his file to never give him yellow optics without consulting him first, no matter the circumstances.

“I’ll have you know I’ve only busted my optics, uh, six or seven times in a fight,” Drift teased, returning the affectionate squeeze. “And at least two of those required a full rebuild after, so they totally don’t count.”

“Riiiight.”

“Hey! It’s a great track record!” he continued mock-defensively. “Especially for a Wrecker.”

“Now  _ that _ I’ll grant you,” Ratchet chuckled. Wreckers were notorious for coming back as barely ambulatory collections of parts. “Good thing you aren’t a Wrecker anymore.”

“I’d rather be here.” Drift leaned forward and bunted their helm crests together.

“Even when I hand you a scrub brush and put you to work?” Ratchet teased, bunting back before letting go and returning to his bench. He fished out the promised brush and tossed it to Drift, who caught it deftly. “The parts got stored over there,” he pointed to the boxes, tucked away at the side of the bay. “I’ll be in ISO, putting this guy back together.”

“Even when you hand me a scrub brush and put me to work,” Drift said with a dopey smile. He hopped off the berth to go get the indicated boxes. “I’ll put them away when I’m done, or called away, if I can.”

“Just kick them out of the walkway if you have to rush out,” Ratchet said, not worried about it. “You’re welcome to come back here between tasks, if you want.”

“Thanks.” Pulling the boxes open, Drift settled down to keep cleaning. Ratcheted watched him for a klik, then put his lover out of his mind in favor of the unconscious Decepticon locked in ISO.

Despite Red Alert’s fears to the contrary, of course Ragefire hadn’t so much as twitched. 

Ratchet set to fixing the neural damage first, able to connect directly to Ragefire’s self repair to locate the microtears and disruptions now that his firewalls were down. He worked down from the base of his helm where the highest injury was, checking each time before moving on that the electrical signals were making it to the next interruption without errors. The heat of the shot and, more significantly, the shorts caused by his vocalizer blowing out, had fused sections of his wiring all along his neck and the upper portion of his spinal strut. Some of the problem spots Ratchet was able to strip out easily, cutting away the damaged wiring and splicing in (matching!) new for self repair to integrate, but others were a little bit harder. Wires didn’t just fuse to wires, they also fused to cables and struts and myomer, and separating those bundles took more time to do without causing new damage he would need to fix.

He got all the way through the rewiring without any interruptions. Satisfied that the connections were all restored internally, Ratchet disconnected and stepped away long enough to make sure no one else needed his attention. Drift wasn’t there when he looked out into the main bay, but Smokescreen was, patiently sitting on a berth with a painful looking dent in the middle of one doorwing.

“How long have you been waiting?” Ratchet asked, coming over to inspect the damage. “And who punched you?”

“Not long, and no one,” Smokescreen answered ruefully. “You know how us with these sort of things have to be especially careful on battlefields not to catch a stray bullet on the giant targets we’ve got strapped to our backs…?” he trailed off, obviously stalling.

“Yes…?” Ratchet said, having none of it. “What did you get in the way of this time then?”

“Uh…” He hesitated a few nanokliks longer. “ItmighthavebeenalobballoranotherplayerI’mnotsure.”

Ratchet huffed when he worked his way through that. “Let me guess. Tryouts?” He knew it. This was  _ exactly  _ the reason he hadn’t wanted the stupid sports league to take off. They hadn’t even had their first game, and already he had people coming in with serious injuries! 

“Team Mustache for the win,” Smokescreen confirmed.

“Team  _ what?” _

“Team Mustache. It was Rodimus’ idea. The others are the Sabertoothed Cybercats and the Happy Weasels. That one was Whirl’s idea.”

_ Fantastic.  _ “Does that mean Whirl is a team captain, or are those still undecided besides Rodimus?” There was no way he hadn’t made himself team captain as well as ship’s captain. Ratchet finished scanning the substructures under Smokescreen’s dented plating. “You got lucky, by the way. It’ll hurt like blazes when I pop it, and ache for a few joors after, but I don’t need to fix anything internal.”

“Could have told you that. Ambulon checked before sending me up here to wait for you. Go for it, doc. It’s not like I haven’t had dents popped before.”

“Ambulon’s watching?” That made Ratchet feel a little better.

Smokescreen burst out laughing. “Sure, Ratch. We’ll call it ‘watching’.”

“Oh, no,” Ratchet groaned, pulling over the dent popper. “He’s  _ playing?” _

“And slagging good at it. Mech cannot be tackled by anyone in his size class,” Smokescreen said with relish. “Whirl is  _ going down _ in their first game.”

Which, no doubt, played a part in Ambulon’s desire to participate. The dynamic between him, Whirl, and First Aid was a complicated one, and if Ambulon and Whirl were on opposite teams, they would have a chance to compete while First Aid got to cheer his little fanbot spark out over both of them.

Ratchet had to resist the urge to bang his head against the wall.

“Hold still,” he told Smokescreen, attaching the magnet over the dent.

“Holding sti— aah!” Ratchet pulled the dent out before the other mech could brace himself. “Ouch. That smarts.” Smokescreen waited while Ratchet unhooked the dent popper and then waggled the appendage experimentally. “I will never get used to that.”

“It’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to get used to,” Ratchet commented, though the sad reality was that, to an extent, he  _ had  _ gotten used to it — by virtue of having been through worse, multiple times. A doorwing injury like that? Smokescreen probably would have demanded a painkiller at least, in the past. All of them had learned to brush off injuries and pain that would have been agonizing before the war as nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “I’d suggest you avoid strenuous activity for the rest of the cycle, but I suspect you’re headed right back to the court to bash yourself up some more.”

“Actually, I think I was disqualified,” Smokescreen mused. “And I’m definitely not trying out for either of the loser teams. So I’m going to go get some snacks together for our first book club meeting next shift. Rung tricked Ultra Magnus into signing off on a tray of liquid fuel and gels for us.”

“He did?” That was a nice surprise. Ratchet decided he didn’t want to know how he’d managed it. “Are we going to be able to meet in the new library?”

“It’s pretty sparse, but yeah. We’ve got some chairs. I’m trying to convince Rung we should go with bean bags in the long run,” Smokescreen grinned. “Little nerd didn’t even know what they were before I sent him an image capture.”

“Bean bags would be an interesting choice.” But Ratchet was smiling too. They would be comfortable for a variety of frames, and just right somehow for a relaxed, comfortable atmosphere. “There just needs to be a rule about not throwing them.”

“Why? It won’t actually cut down on mechs doing so, and would only encourage some.” Smokescreen stood and stretched, flexing his doors with a wince. “See you in a bit.”

“See you.” Ratchet put the dent popper away, then returned to Ragefire. He still needed to reconstruct his spinal ports and install his new optics before returning him to the brig.

No one else came in with any injuries from tryouts, but the knowledge that Ambulon was there kept Ratchet from worrying too much. He’d sent Smokescreen to get his dent popped, so Ratchet could trust he would send along anyone else who got seriously hurt. Their review of sports injuries had gone very well, and both he and First Aid were just as capable as Ratchet himself to assess what self repair could handle on its own, and what needed medical assistance.

Finished with Ragefire’s optics, Ratchet re-secured the restraints — unneeded — and left him locked in ISO with a monitor attached to his new ports. He needed time to integrate the repairs, but he’d be back in Fort Max’s care next cycle, as promised. 

Exiting ISO with a stretch, Ratchet saw Drift once again cleaning and sorting parts.

He looked up with a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Ratchet came over and checked his progress. “You’ve almost got those finished.”

“One bin down, dozens more to go.” He set aside the brush and stretched. “Book club tonight?”

“Yes. I think it’s going to go fairly well.” There was one advantage of the tryouts. All the activity would have given Whirl a chance to burn off some energy before sitting around doing nothing but talking. 

“You’re going to have to tell me all about it later.” Drift reached out and took Ratchet’s hand. “I have something I’d like you to give Rung though, for his library.” A small datachip was pressed into his palm like it was magic.

“What’s this?” Looking at the outside didn’t reveal anything about its contents, of course. The only thing Ratchet could determine was that, despite being a small chip, it had a large storage capacity. Surely it wasn’t… “You said you couldn’t risk sharing those files.”

“Those are the ones we stole. No original work,” Drift clarified obliquely. “You’ll look like a digital hoarder, but there’s nothing on there that’ll get you in trouble.”

“If that’s all it is, why don’t you deliver it?” 

“And where would I have gotten copies of all these, if someone questions it?” Drift said gently. “I could maybe have stolen some of it, but not all of it. Not by myself. You had legal access to the libraries and university computers though.”

“True.” At least, he’d had partial access. Without looking through the entire chip Ratchet couldn’t be sure  _ everything  _ on it was something he’d had legal access to, and he’d put a lot of money on there being things it would have been odd for him as a medic to have copied and saved in the lot, but he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t have a problem stonewalling anyone who tried to contest him having the files, where Drift obviously did. If it made Drift more comfortable for him to claim ownership of them, he would. “I’ll let Rung know about my secret digital hoarding habits then.”

Drift’s smile turned brilliant. “Thanks. They weren’t meant to rust away where no one would be able to use them.”

“It’s wonderful that they’ve survived through everything,” Ratchet said. “Rung will be happy to have them.”

“I aim to please.” Drift bunted their helm crests together, then gently bit Ratchet’s chevron.

Ambulon walked in, more paint flaked off than normal, right as Drift was licking the thin grey metal. He looked at them, then deliberately turned away. “I don’t want to know. I’m going to go check on the ‘Con in ISO.”

Ratchet sighed. “One of these cycles I really should have a talk with him about that.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“I know.” If it had bothered Drift, Ratchet would have done something about it already. “But I need to make sure it doesn’t become a problem. I’m not saying you two need to become best friends or anything, but he’s being more avoidant than he used to be.”

“More avoidant than when he was hiding behind Whirl if I so much as poked my head in looking for you?” Drift scoffed. “He was fine patching me up on Temptoria.”

“And didn’t put off your post-battle so someone else would be the one doing it?”

“I wasn’t a critical case. And you can’t blame him if I make him uncomfortable.” 

Drift nuzzled him, possibly hoping to distract him, but Ratchet didn’t let it. “Some mechs don’t get on well with each other. I’m aware, and I’m not blaming anyone. But I’m also responsible for keeping an optic on things in my department and addressing potential issues. Don’t worry, I’m not about to corner him or lock the two of you in a closet to ‘work out your differences’.”

“Pretty sure that wouldn’t work as well with us as it would with you and me.” Drift chuckled. “Don’t be late to book club on my account.”

“All right, all right, I’m going,” Ratchet said with a parting smile. “I’ll make sure they know you want in on the next one.”

.

.

.

Unfortunately, the next meeting that included both Ratchet and Drift wasn’t a book club meeting: It was Rodimus calling them both in the following cycle for a “private pow-wow” to address the “elephant in the basement”.

“You got what you wanted,” he said, for the moment speaking calmly from his seat behind his desk. Ratchet gave him an arch look across it, and Rodimus huffed. “He’s in stasis and no one’s touching him. That  _ is  _ what you wanted, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for Ratchet to answer. “But he’s still very much  _ here,  _ and I still very much have to explain why I didn’t do what I said I was going to when Prowl comes looking for answers — answers  _ you  _ have to help me come up with.”

“Because this is my fault?”

“Well for once, it’s not mine.” Rodimus shot him a smug look. Even though it still was; Ratchet certainly wasn’t going to blame him for  _ not _ sacrificing his friend to advance Prowl’s schemes.

“I suppose you want something better than, ‘I decided your scheme was unethical and stupid and I don’t have to follow your orders anymore’,” Ratchet said, not blaming him for that either. It was fun to imagine saying something like that to Prowl, but the fantasy lost appeal very quickly after Prowl’s initial shocked reaction. Then it started being painful, for them.

“I don’t think Prowl would actually accept that,” Drift murmured. 

“Not without making problems for you, no,” Ratchet had to admit. And unlike claiming the files Drift had passed him were his, Ratchet claiming responsibility for this wouldn’t work either. Rodimus and Drift both outranked him, and weren’t obliged to listen to his counsel (though Ratchet was grateful they had). “So what sort of answer would he accept?”

The two of them exchanged a look.

“There isn’t exactly anything he could do if Overlord was dead,” Drift offered tentatively.

_ “That’s  _ your first thought?” Ratchet blurted out. “To kill a defenceless prisoner?”

“Not my  _ first _ thought,” Drift muttered at the same time Rodimus protested, “You’re defending  _ Overlord?” _

“I’m not defending his character or his actions,” Ratchet said, shuddering at the thought. “The mech is a monster and a threat to everyone around him.”

“So what’s your bright idea then?” Rodimus leaned forward, making a show of listening and being open to suggestions. It made Ratchet wish he had one.

“He’s our prisoner. He has rights. Not killing him would be a good start. Beyond that…” Ratchet spread his hands helplessly. “I’m not sure. If we’re trying to create the physical impossibility of doing anything with him, then just getting him off the ship would accomplish that.”

“There isn’t any place we could leave him that would be safe,” Drift said quietly, carefully non-confrontational. “Once he’s off the ship, he could be found by anyone. Or if he isn’t, he’d simply starve to death in a million vorns when he runs out of fuel.”

“There aren’t  _ many  _ places he could be left safely,” Ratchet amended, unable to think of one off the cuff but unwilling to believe they couldn’t find one. “We should look into what’s out here, see if there is something that could work. We have the time.”

Drift didn’t say anything. Rodimus looked back and forth between them, a little worriedly, then set both hands on the table with an air of finality. “Alright, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Great,” Ratchet said. “I’ll start looking when I have time around work.”

“We should all look for someplace,” Drift suggested. “Or several. We can debate the merits of each when we have some possibilities.”

Rodimus nodded. “Good idea.”

“Then,” Ratchet stood, preparing to leave, “are we scheduling another one of these meetings now, or waiting to call one when there’s something new to discuss?”

“I hate scheduling,” Rodimus complained, throwing himself back in his chair. He twirled his etching tool in his fingers, contemplating the tip. “Let’s hold off on that until we have something to actually talk about. We’ll touch base in… two decacycles? That sound good? If we haven’t gotten back together before then.”

“Works for me.” The door was unlocked when Ratchet reached it. He left with a quick wave over his shoulder. Drift stayed a moment longer, touching hands with Rodimus and speaking quietly, before following. Ratchet waited for him to draw even with him. “You don’t think we’ll find anything.”

Drift looked back, a little guardedly. “I’m willing to look. It’s possible we’ll find something.”

“But you don’t think we will.” Ratchet nodded, then dismissed the subject. “Okay.”

The swordsmech’s field flickered in surprise. “Okay?”

“Yup.” It wouldn’t be the first thing they didn’t agree on. It didn't need to ruin a perfectly good relationship. “Just checking. Want to talk about something else?”

“Yes?”

Ratchet couldn’t help chuckling at Drift’s confusion. “We’re not going to convince each other of anything right now, and I don’t want to fight about it. We could talk about this instead?” he suggested, pulling out a datapad. “Rung’s pick for book club. He said it’s the first in a series of adventure novels. This copy’s for you.”

With a shy smile, Drift took the datapad and flicked it on.  _ The Spear of Dreams: Book One of the Artifacts Saga _ was printed in bold glyphs over a picture of a rather fantastical scene of a blue and white speedster framed mech casting a spear at a giant digger with rows and rows of serrated teeth rotating in its huge maw. Drift flipped to the next page to read the book’s summary page, smile growing wider.

“I haven’t read it,” he finally said, obviously thrilled.

“Club’s only meeting on the first novel, but Rung does have the rest,” Ratchet informed him. “I haven’t read it either, and neither has Whirl or First Aid, but Smokescreen and, obviously, Rung have.”

“It’s great. I’ll start as soon as I can.” He flipped to the next page, a copy of the book’s copyright and printing information, and read that as carefully as he had the summary page.

“Does ‘as soon as I can’ mean ‘now’?” Ratchet chuckled again. 

Drift looked up, startled. “No. Sorry.” He turned off the datapad, but didn’t subspace it yet.

“I won’t be offended if that’s what you want to do. I just thought I’d point out we’re both off duty right now and could do something together, including find somewhere to sit and read together.”

“I get kind of into notetaking,” Drift admitted. “I wouldn’t want to ignore you.”

“Do questions when you’re taking notes bother you?”

“You’re less annoying than my old notice ping,” he teased back. “So no.”

“Then let’s find somewhere to hole up.” Ratchet held out an arm. “My place or yours?”

“I need to get a blank datapad from my things, and we’re closer to mine anyway.” Drift laid his hand on Ratchet’s elbow, letting himself be escorted to his own quarters.

It turned out he wasn’t kidding about the notetaking. While Ratchet would have been content to just cuddle together and read side by side, soon Drift had too many datapads out to manage without moving to spread them out on the floor. The blank pad for notes was only the beginning; he had reference ones too, several of them.

“You really are a secret academic, aren’t you?”

Drift turned and smiled up at Ratchet, now lounging on the berth alone while Drift herded his datapads. They weren’t cuddling, quite, but Ratchet dangled one careless leg off the side, where Drift leaned against it, field humming with a note of contented happiness he hadn’t felt before. “I suppose it won’t be a secret if I write a twenty page paper on Cartography’s  _ Meditations on First Philosophy _ as expressed by this book,” he said, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

“Not really, no.” Ratchet sat up a bit and looked at the datapads, spotting  _ Meditations  _ next to Drift’s left foot. “Are you just drawing parallels, or did the author actually use that in the novel?”

“Right now I’m just drawing parallels,” Drift answered happily, scooting to give Ratchet room before leaning back against his leg again. “But it was the spear that made me think of it. One of Cartography’s essays uses a spear as a symbol in discussing dreams, so right now I am theorizing that the author meant for his primary character to undergo a literal version of that particular meditation in his adventure.”

“What if that’s not what happens when you read more than the first chapter? You’re putting a lot of effort into a prediction that might not pan out.”

“You’re right, that’s not usually the way it happens in literature,” Drift nuzzled Ratchet’s leg, engine making a soft purr that vibrated where their plating touched. “Usually I’d read the whole thing and build a theory after. But this is exciting, so I guess if it doesn’t pan out, it’ll be one of those rare lit papers where the author admits he’s wrong at the end.”

“You’re really having that much fun with this, aren’t you?” It was incredibly endearing. “I look forward to reading your thesis.”

“Oh no. I am not writing another  _ thesis,” _ Drift laughed. “Especially not on  _ this.” _ He waved the datapad containing the novel up at Ratchet. “The whole book is shorter than a real thesis would be.”

“Shorter than the thesis you did write?” Ratchet checked the file size on his own copy of the novel. It wasn’t insignificant. “Would you let me read it someday?” 

“I gave you a copy,” Drift said softly, more seriously. “You don’t need to ask me before you start.”

“I didn’t realize it was there,” Ratchet said, humbled. “If I don’t need to ask to read it, can I ask how to find it? Your filing system is a bit… eclectic.”

“I warned you my file names didn’t always make sense.” Drift’s optics glazed over for a bit, probably pulling his saved files on his HUD to check which one was what he was looking for. “Apparently I called it  _ Reviewer #2 Can Frag Himself Sideways.” _

Ratchet burst out laughing. “Now there’s a professional sounding title!”

“Based on that file name, I probably included my review panel’s critique.” He looked away, back down to the floor. “Don’t be mad at me for it, please.”

“I will take an academic approach,” Ratchet promised, setting down his datapad so he could lean forward and rest a hand on Drift’s helm. “Thank you.”

Drift’s frame went still, then he purred. 

A moment later he shook off Ratchet’s hand, but before the medic could ask what was wrong, Drift turned and climbed up to join him on the berth. “You’re the best.” He snuggled close and carefully bit the edge of Ratchet’s armor.

“Happy accident,” Ratchet said, petting Drift’s helm. “Glad whatever I’m doing seems to be working.”

Drift didn’t bother repeating that Ratchet was being open-minded and accepting of something very few Autobots would tolerate. “I wish we were allowed to have liquid fuel in our habs,” he said instead. “I’d trade anything for the chance to lick it off you right now.”

“You would, hmm?” A memory sparked in Ratchet’s processor. “Is that related to the biting dream?”

Drift stiffened, as though realizing he’d admitted too much, but this time he didn’t pull away. “Yeah. It is.”

“And is it something you  _ would  _ like to discuss a trade for?”

“What do you want? I trust you,” he assured, “but if we’re discussing this, then I don’t want us to have a misunderstanding like the first.”

“I’d like to be on the same page too,” Ratchet agreed, “so let’s start by you telling me if I’m completely off base here. You want to lick fuel off my plating. From my lines.”

“Yes.” Drift shuddered, burying his face in Ratchet’s chest, as though afraid to look up at his reaction. “That’s what I want.”

It was something Ratchet was willing to just give him. Possibly only once, depending on how it went, but at least the once to find out. But he knew Drift would never accept it. He needed it to be a trade to feel safe being so vulnerable.

Vulnerable… 

“Tie me up.”

Drift jerked to look up into Ratchet’s optics. “That’s what you want?” His field flickered with surprise. 

“Yes.” The more he thought about it, the more he wanted it, actually. “I like when you hold me down and I can just let go and enjoy the pleasure.” How much better would it be when he  _ really  _ couldn’t escape it? “I trust you to do it.”

“That sounds like a fair trade.” Drift smiled. “If you’re okay with it.”

“I am,” Ratchet said, and meant it. “Your kink first?”

Drift’s fans hitched, then sped up. He shook himself and slipped out of Ratchet’s arms, pulling them both to sitting. “We’re going to do this right. I’m going to do this right.” He pulled a first aid kit from his subspace and opened it, pulling out foam sealant, an anti-corrosive, a couple cloth pads, cleanser, and a temp patch. “What is your safeword? Where would you like me to bite?”

“What places work best for this?” Ratchet wasn’t so familiar with the concept he knew what all his options were. “And as far as a safeword goes, chrome.”

“Chrome,” Drift repeated, as though memorizing the word. He tilted his head, considering. His optics roamed Ratchet’s frame, which he had spent so much time exploring before. “It needs to be a place you can move the armor aside. The only place I could reach your fuel lines otherwise is your neck, but it’d be too easy for me to hurt you there.” Even if the chances of Ratchet bleeding out from a pair of tiny punctures was miniscule, he could see the sense of that. “This is the wrong sort of context for neck biting anyway. Limbs would give you more control. Your lower legs, or,” his fans sped up again, whirring loudly, before he forced them to quiet and continue calmly, “your wrist. The one without your cords.” 

That would keep Drift where he could watch him better. Ratchet wanted to see his expressions. “Wrist it is then,” he said, holding out the arm in question and sliding his armor aside.

Drift pulled back; not wanting him to go too far, Ratchet wrapped a leg loosely around his lover, keeping him close. The result left Drift kneeling on the berth between Ratchet’s legs, Ratchet’s tire resting on one of Drift’s ankle joints. Drift huffed softly.

“Comfortable?” he asked, starting to clean the exposed wires and substructures, like Ratchet would before a surgery.

“Yes.” Physically, he was comfortable. Mentally, he was somewhere between curious and anxious, though the latter was the result of not knowing exactly what to expect rather than fear. “What should I do with my other hand?”

“If you’re in the mood, you have my permission to plug in,” Drift said carefully, distinctly. “I can make this  _ very _ pleasurable for you… What do you want?”

“I’m not sure.” Ratchet retracted the panel over his cords. “Maybe once you’ve started?”

Dropping the used cloth to the floor where neither of them would accidentally pick it up again, Drift took another and soaked it in cleanser and quickly wiped off his teeth, then dropped that cloth to join the other. Ratchet heard a pair of Drift’s port covers slide open, but he didn’t try and unspool the corresponding cords; instead, Drift focused on exploring the substructures in Ratchet’s wrist. The sensation was… a bit odd. “You could pet my finials?”

That was a suggestion Ratchet was willing to act on right away. He placed his hand on Drift’s helm, gently stroking the metal. “They are good for petting.”

Drift’s engine rumbled out a soft purr. Optics dimming, he nuzzled Ratchet’s arm, licking and nipping until he found the thicker, primary energon line to his hand. His hands held onto Ratchet’s, cradling it like it was a precious thing.

Ratchet expected the bite to hurt, and it did, but not a lot. The HUD notice that he’d been damaged was more irritating than anything else. 

Energon welled from the wounds and Drift’s tongue quickly wiped it away. Bliss and sleepy contentment flickered through the swordmech’s field as his frame shuddered in pleasure.

This. This was what Ratchet had wanted to see, and it was beautiful. The glimpses he’d gotten from watching Drift dream had been good, but seeing the real thing was better. He cradled Drift’s helm tenderly, silently encouraging him to continue. Drift mewed and licked at the wound again, wrapping his lips around it to pull a little more energon out and swallowing with another shiver.

Another notice popped up on Ratchet’s HUD, letting him know he was bleeding. How helpful. Ratchet dismissed it, and suppressed any additional messages until he reached a more serious threshold. He wanted to focus on Drift, not be distracted by his own systems — and Drift’s reactions were muted but beautiful. Electricity didn’t crackle over his armor like a climb to overload, but his fans turned on and his core heated. He moaned softly, lost in his pleasure.

Ratchet continued to watch, petting Drift’s helm and wondering about plugging in. Drift had said he could, and that he could make it pleasurable for him, but that wasn’t what had Ratchet thinking about it. If he plugged in, would he get to see the pleasure Drift was taking from this more clearly? 

It didn’t take long before curiosity won out. His hand moved lower, toward Drift’s exposed ports, and his cords extended. “May I?” he asked, pausing before making the connection.

Drift lifted his head; his optics came back on, glowing a deep shade of blue that made the medic’s engine hitch. Ratchet had seen that look in lovers’ optics before, the instant before they overloaded. “Yes.” He bowed his head to make his ports easier to reach, letting go of Ratchet’s hand temporarily so he could use it to keep control of his misbehaving interfacing equipment.

Quickly, so as to minimize the interruption, Ratchet guided the twitching cords into place. He dropped his firewalls as they slid home, and he dropped his wrist back into Drift’s hand with a soft gasp. Drift’s firewalls recognized him and let him in. Ratchet saw he’d already queued up the pleasure program that would send him into an overwhelming and processor-blowing overload. He offered it so that Ratchet’s internal defenses could run a virus scan and determine the program was safe.

Ratchet started scanning it, but he also sent back a query:  _ What does it feel like for you? _

In answer he felt Drift licking again at the energon welling up from his fuel line. There was a distinct flavor to it he thought he’d find unpleasant, but filtered through Drift’s perceptions it wasn’t at all. The energon had a high-energy taste that Drift associated with plentiful fuel, a full tank, and sleepy safety. Memories of others, warm metal, shared fuel pressed close. Sometimes he — Drift — bit and sometimes he was being bitten, but either way it was an affirmation, a promise. They never had full tanks, any of them, but they had each other… He could taste the cleanser Drift had used before they started, felt his satisfaction that he was being careful and taking care of Ratchet… There was a distinct flavor to Ratchet’s metal. Ratchet who was so beautiful and kind.

_ Love… _

Ratchet keened.

The program came back clean.  _ Whenever you’re ready to finish,  _ he sent with the confirmation. Until then, this — Drift, Drift’s pleasure, Drift’s feelings — was more than enough.

The pleasure program withdrew with a feeling of curiosity, but Drift didn’t question him. Instead the pathways deeper into his mind opened up in invitation, as he pulled in another swallow of energon. This time Ratchet felt the memories a little clearer, could almost put names to the blurred impressions of  _ warmth _ and  _ safety _ and  _ home _ in Drift’s formulative memories. Pebble. Fervid. Gasket.

And Ratchet. The taste of his own fuel, the sound of their combined fans, the warmth of his frame, the smoothness of his paint under his — Drift’s — fingers, now idly exploring… Ratchet was almost overwhelmed with sensory information. With the sense of himself.

It wasn’t enough to overload, but it was intense, and very, very intimate. Without taking over the connection or forcing anything across the link, Ratchet laid bare his side of the experience: the absolute, unshakable trust he had in Drift, the sense of awe at being trusted so deeply in return, and the spark-deep satisfaction and pleasure in being able to make Drift feel happy and safe… 

Drift shuddered and mewed again. With a last mouthful, he pulled back, utterly satiated.  _ Now? _ He offered the pleasure program again.

Wanting it more for the chance to clear his processor quickly so he wouldn’t be kliks sorting everything out if they simply disconnected, Ratchet nodded.  _ Now. _

Phantom fingers danced over, inside, his plating as Ratchet’s charge rose quickly. The air tasted like ozone and hot metal. His engine overclocked and sparks escaped; he clung to Drift and writhed. Already confused conscious thought disappeared, buried beneath a barrage of sensory data that, this time, was enough to make him overload.

Awareness returned slowly. There was a heavy exhaustion in his frame that reminded him of too many joors working in the medbay. His limbs were… well they weren’t sore, except for an odd ache in his wrist, but they were tired. His fuel was low, but he was plugged into his berth so that didn’t worry him. Actually, it was probably Drift’s berth, he thought muzzily. The air smelled like the smoke of Drift’s spicy-soothing incense, not just a freshly lit stick of it but also the deeper, softer scent which was pervasive in Drift’s habsuite, but only just starting to take root in his own.

He might have been content with those muzzy conclusions and simply let his frame draw him back to sleep until next shift, but gasped at the sharp pain of a foam sealant being applied to an open wound on his wrist. 

Helpfully, his HUD informed him he was no longer bleeding.

“Thank you,” Ratchet said softly, slowly turning his head to look at the bandage on his wrist. He caught Drift’s optics and smiled. “Looks good.”

“I wasn’t going to just leave it,” Drift said softly. Smoothing the temp patch over the sealed holes, he caressed Ratchet’s wrist one last time before withdrawing. “You can put your armor back now.”

“Just complimenting you on the application.” Ratchet closed his armor over the patch. His self repair indicated the injury was minor and that his lines would be completely restored within a cycle. “And on how careful you were.” He had seen wounds inflicted by Decepticon fangs on careless Autobots before. More for show than use as weapons, they could still inflict nasty wounds that, while rarely serious unless the victim was extraordinarily unlucky or the ‘Con had mods that injected some kind of toxin into the bite, were still a pain to repair. But Drift had bit cleanly, leaving only a pair of small, tidy punctures and shallow marks that were more scuffs than dents from his other teeth.

“I won’t hurt you,” Drift promised, settling down in Ratchet’s embrace to snuggle up against his chest.

Ratchet linked his fingers together, securing Drift in his arms. “I know.” He nuzzled Drift’s helm. “That was…” 

“Hopefully not bad?”

“‘Bad’ is not anywhere near the list of adjectives I was considering.” The list was entirely positive; just also long enough that he was having trouble picking the right words to describe the experience. “How about I start with the very practical ‘worth repeating’.”

Drift stilled. “You haven’t gotten your half yet.”

“And I’m hoping that’ll be worth repeating too.” Ratchet was fairly certain it would be. “Even if it’s not though, I’d be willing to negotiate something else if you want to do this again.”

White plating shivered. “I would like that.”

“Thought you might.” Which was the real reason it was worth repeating. Drift enjoyed it so much, and it hadn’t really bothered Ratchet at all. Even before plugging in and being distracted (and that part had been truly wonderful), it hadn’t been uncomfortable or gross. Still not his kink, but not something he’d have a problem doing again. “I liked getting to see you like that.”

“You’re wonderful.” Drift’s engine rumbled softly, contented. “You should recharge though. I didn’t take a lot, but you should replace the power.”

“I was noticing that, yes.” A nap was a good idea. “Are you staying up here, or going back to your paper?”

“I’ll stay with you.” Drift snuggled impossibly closer.

Ratchet chuckled, resting his helm on Drift’s as he started powering down. “Good answer.”

.

.

.


	15. Chapter 15

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.

.

Once he finished repairing the last of the out of commission Autobots, he began going over Silverstorm’s medical data. Parts of his history were still incomplete or missing, but there was enough for Ratchet to get a sense of the original injury, how poorly it had been repaired, and, more importantly,  _ how long ago  _ it had all happened and how long it had had to deteriorate. The prognosis wasn’t good. He was going to require a complete replacement of the mismatched neural wiring, and a good deal of the wiring around the original repair that had become corrupted would need to be overhauled as well. Ideally a proper repair would entail replacing more than just that, as much of it as a medic could reach. 

Silverstorm accepted that news with narrowed optics and a suspicious, “What do you want?”

“In exchange for doing the repairs? Well, you aren’t in a position to trade information,” Ratchet said; by now they had confirmed that none of the ‘Cons had any idea the Circle of Light had even been attacked, let alone where they’d been taken. “But you do have something else you can bargain with.”

Getting permission for this had required Ratchet get up early to accost Ultra Magnus while he was still on troubleshooting duty to pitch it to him. He’d found him supervising the salvage operations on the two Decepticon ships, which contributed to securing his agreement. There were provisions in the Autobot Code for putting POWs to work, humanely, and another work crew or three — even ones that needed to be supervised by security — would make stripping the ships go a lot faster.

Rodimus had not been as cooperative. He’d refused on the grounds that they were untrustworthy because they were Decepticons and stubbornly held to the point. Ratchet had lost his temper, but made no headway until after his tantrum had turned to begging. Silverstorm, at the  _ very least, _ needed additional medical attention!

In a rare instance of  _ Ultra Magnus _ playing peacemaker, he had suggested Ratchet find some task for a singular Decepticon and take on supervising him personally. If it worked, and Silverstorm cooperated, they could return to the topic of expanding the arrangement and putting the others to work salvaging after.

Of course, Red Alert still insisted on providing Ratchet with a security officer who’d hover in the medbay and look menacing, but that was okay. The important thing was that he had something to demand of a suspicious Decepticon who wouldn’t accept altruism — who currently had his arms folded over his chest as he glared at Ratchet. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Manual labor,” Ratchet answered, as planned. “The meticulous, boring kind, not the strenuous kind, in your case. I’ve found myself with a medbay overflowing with parts and scraps, all of which need to be cleaned and sorted.”

“That’s it?” Ratchet supposed that for someone used to being shorted by his own people and bargaining with torturers for help from the opposite side, it would seem like a small price for lifesaving repairs. “I’ll do it,” he said, before Ratchet could tack on additional tasks.

“Okay.” Nice not having to argue for once. “You can start next cycle. You’ll be working in chains, with supervision, in the medbay. Cooperate and do good work, and we’ll consider it a fair trade.”

“Sure,” Silverstorm said belligerently. He went back to the berth and flopped down on it, shoving one of his cell mate’s legs aside so they could share — for a given definition of the word. In any case, it was pretty clear he considered the conversation over. 

Ratchet walked away from his cell.

“He agreed,” he told Fort Max when he reached his station — unnecessarily, since he’d been watching the whole thing. “Think he’s a good candidate for this?”

“Impossible to say if he is yet,” the huge prison warden said noncommittally. “I can point out several who are definitely not, however.”

“Please do. I’m advocating for work teams to reduce problems, not cause them.”

For Max nodded. “I’ll have my observations forwarded to you and security before we start putting teams together.”

“Thank you.” With any luck, enough of the prisoners would fall on the right side of the line for a couple good crews. It would ease the burden on everyone else, and be better for the ‘Cons than sitting around in confined quarters with nothing to do as well.

It was nearing the end of his shift. Ratchet returned to the medbay, using his remaining time to set up a workstation for Silverstorm. There was no part of the medbay, except ISO, where a prisoner couldn’t potentially be problematic if they started messing around, so Ratchet went with setting him up on an out of the way berth where he could be easily observed by both himself and Red Alert’s assigned guard. Red Alert would consider it a bonus that, if he started making trouble, he could be pushed down and fully restrained to the berth with a minimum of fuss since they were already set up to do that. But for now, securing him by a short chain attached to one ankle would be more than enough.

He shuffled crates of parts so they sat near one end of the berth, and placed an empty crate at the other. A bucket of brushes and rags went on the berth in the middle with a second, empty, one he’d fill with cleanser next cycle. He didn’t want Silverstorm potentially in the way by the the medbay’s one sink. Then he went to go find a stool for the guard to sit on during his hopefully extremely boring shift of watching Silverstorm clean things.

Finally he did one last sweep of the area to move any equipment that could be moved out of arm’s reach and made sure there were no stray tools that could be a security risk. He even collected up the spent dataslugs that had accumulated under the berth.

“I guess that’s about as good as it’s going to get,” he said, satisfied for now. He heard the door open behind him and turned to see Ambulon coming in. “Don’t move this stuff. One of the prisoners is going to be here on my next shift working on it.”

“I’ll let First Aid know when he comes on shift,” Ambulon said, coming around to inspect the arrangement.

“Let me know if you’d be willing or interested in supervising something similar. You or First Aid. It’s fine if you’d rather not deal with it, but I figured I ask. Though with any luck, I’ll prove my point soon and the rest who need repairs can trade work over on the ships for them instead of needing to be here.” Ratchet picked up a short stack of datapads. “Discharges from earlier that need to be completed in the system,” he explained. “I didn’t get to them thanks to my detour to the brig.”

“I can start picking apart the bodies while you do those,” Ambulon offered. “Put the salvaged parts in the bins for the Decepticon to clean?”

“Yup.” It wasn’t likely Silverstorm would be able to match specific parts to specific ‘Cons, especially once they were mixed in with the parts taken from the ships. “Thanks. I’ll be in the office.”

As Ratchet turned away, Ambulon reached out, grabbing his hand to pull him back. He was staring intently at Ratchet’s arm and the older medic felt the sweep of a powerful medical scan from his shoulder to his fingertips. 

The result made Ambulon stiffen, EM field flaring in alarm. “You need to go to security,” he said, low and urgent. “Or I will. Autobots don’t tolerate that behavior.”

“Autobots don’t tolerate what behavior?” Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Being mechhandled by their subordinates?”

Ambulon dropped Ratchet’s hand, but he didn’t back away. “Threats, blackmail… whatever he used to coerce you.”

“Coerce me? To  _ what?” _ Ratchet looked down at his arm, trying to figure out what could possibly have Ambulon so freaked… out… “O~kay, I think we both need to go to the office now,” he said, motioning Ambulon to follow him. This was not a conversation he wanted anyone walking in on.

Ambulon came willingly, staying silent until the door closed behind them. He even waited for Ratchet to turn on the screen that would display the camera feed in the medbay, so they’d know if someone came in. As soon as that was done though, he got right to the point. “You  _ have _ to go to security,” he repeated, urgently. His EM field jangled worriedly against Ratchet’s. “You don’t deserve that, whatever he’s told you. His threats won’t mean anything if he’s in the brig.”

“His threats don’t mean anything because he hasn’t made any,” Ratchet countered, holding up his arm. “This isn’t something he blackmailed or coerced me into, and it barely registers as damage. How did you even know it was  _ there?” _

“You think you’re the first? I’ve seen that before; Deadlock has a  _ type.” _ Ambulon shuddered. “Your armor isn’t flush with the piece next to it. He’s gotten better at bandaging them, but you still have a patch in the way.”

Oh, for— “You’ve been watching for this ever since we got together, haven’t you?” Ratchet didn’t know whether to be exasperated or touched. It wasn’t like he’d done it to be invasive; Ambulon was genuinely concerned. Needlessly, as it happened, but still. “I appreciate you wanting to look out for me. Really, I do. But  _ Drift  _ and I are fine.”

Ambulon just shifted uncomfortably. “I thought you might be, when I didn’t see anything after so long. But that,” he gestured to Ratchet’s hand, but didn’t reach out again, “indicates otherwise.”

“Why? He was very responsible about it. He knows how to do it safely.” Ratchet crossed his arms, leaving the wrist in question on top. He wasn’t ashamed of it! “And he didn’t force me. We made a trade.”

“It’s always a trade,” Ambulon muttered. “I know how trades work. But the only thing  _ you _ need protection from on this ship is  _ him.” _

_ “I  _ proposed the trade. I know Drift is capable of being dangerous, and I can guess why that’s what you see first, but I don’t need to be protected from him.”

“You’re not the only one I’m worried about,” the other medic admitted, quieter. “If he’s bold enough to start preying on  _ you, _ and you’re not exactly a soft target, he might start going after First Aid next. I hope Whirl’s as nasty as everyone thinks, because…” Ambulon looked down at his own hands, where he was picking at the paint. He clenched his fists, stopping himself. “Hopefully, Whirl can protect First Aid,” he finished.

Ratchet snorted. Not only could Whirl protect First Aid, but First Aid could do a pretty good job looking out for himself. “First Aid will be fine. Drift isn’t preying on me, or anyone else on this ship.” As self-conscious as he was about his kink, Ratchet doubted he would be willing to broach the subject with anyone who didn’t already know about it — and Perceptor wasn’t a soft target either. If biting had been a part of their arrangement, Ratchet was sure it had been consensual. “I don’t know how predatory he was in the past, but he isn’t now.”

“Ratchet…” Ambulon’s expression twisted into one of resigned helplessness. It wasn’t a good look. He was picking at his paint again, this time on his wrist. 

“I can see you’re having trouble believing that.” Ratchet let his posture relax. “Why? What has you so convinced that he isn’t safe to be around?”

“I told you: he preyed on those who couldn’t refuse him. And he has a type. Just because he held up his end of the bargain doesn’t mean we dared say  _ no.” _

“We”? The single word conjured up several worrying possibilities. “Ambulon,” Ratchet asked carefully, “did he ever coerce you into something like this?”

Ambulon’s optics went wide, as though just realizing what he’d said, then he sighed. “Not me. I was only at the same front as him for a short time, and of that Deadlock was only at the medical facility for a few cycles. It was a very, very near thing though.”

That explained a lot. “You said he has a type.” Ratchet was pretty sure he could guess what kind. “One of the other medics you worked with did have a bad experience with him, I take it?”

“I don’t understand how that,” Ambulon gestured again to Ratchet’s wrist, “could be a  _ good _ experience. Glit said Conduit was the only one who enjoyed it, but Conduit was a crazy, Mortilus-worshiping fragger.”

“Why someone likes a particular activity is a personal thing.” Ratchet wasn’t going to speculate on what Conduit had gotten from it, or go into why he thought it was a pleasurable activity for Drift. “The only time a kink becomes a problem is if someone is getting hurt.”

“There was one medic who enjoyed it,” Ambulon said slowly, “and three others who didn’t. The only advice Glit had for me was to stay away from him. Flatline’s was don’t call him a siphonist or he’d rip my arm off  _ when _ it was my turn!” Venting harshly, Ambulon took a step back, shaking his head.

“Ambulon…” Ratchet he wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he didn’t want to make him feel cornered. He settled for making his EM field as gentle and soothing as possible. “That is absolutely a situation where people were getting hurt. I’m not trying to tell you you’re not remembering right, or trying to justify what he did. Deadlock did a lot of bad things, and believe me, if I thought Drift was continuing any of them now I’d say so right to his face before going to Rodimus about it.”

Responding to either the comforting EM or the words, Ambulon stopped trying to back away. He pulled on his composure like a cloak. “I apologize. I thought I’d dealt with that memory.”

“It’s alright. Bad experiences have a way of ambushing us, even when we think we’ve dealt with them.” Like flashbacks involving Phase Sixers. There wasn’t anyone on this ship — except maybe Tailgate — that didn’t have something in their past waiting to ambush them. “But I promise you: a patch on my arm is not a sign that Drift is about to go off on a siphoning spree. We talked about it beforehand, and I felt perfectly safe to tell him no if I didn’t want to go through with it.”

“Are you sure?” Ambulon asked plaintively, leaning against the wall, maybe for support.

“Yes,” Ratchet said simply. There were things Drift could have leveraged, if he’d wanted to coerce him. He hadn’t brought up any of them. Instead, he’d insisted they speak plainly so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, and asked Ratchet for a safeword before he’d even thought to give one. “I trust him.”

Ambulon slid down the wall, not appearing to care that the action flaked even more paint off his back. “I won’t go to security,” he conceded, “if you promise me you’ll tell me if something changes.”

Ratchet walked over and knelt down in front of him. “Deal,” he said, holding out his hand. “And if you see any patches appearing on anyone else’s lines who didn’t consent to them being there, come get me and we’ll go to security together.”

“…Deal.” 

Ambulon reached out of his defensive huddle to shake the older medic’s hand. Ratchet held his hand for a moment, then moved to rest his hand on Ambulon’s shoulder. “Thank you for looking out for us,” he said with a gentle squeeze. That couldn’t have been easy for Ambulon to confront him about, and actually going to security would have been even harder, but Ratchet believed he would have gone through with it. “Why don’t you take a few kliks in here, maybe take care of entering those discharges. I’ll stick around and field anyone who comes in until you’re ready.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Leaving Ambulon to finish collecting himself, Ratchet returned to the main bay. No one had come in during their talk, but the bodies were still there to strip. He went over to start pulling apart joint assemblies and fuel pumps. At least all the fluids had already been drained, along with what could be filtered and recycled into the ship’s systems. The only messy part of the job was the buildup of oil, grease, and other gunk.

Upside of Rodimus’ stubborn streak was that he wouldn’t be the one cleaning it. Ratchet would pull out the Decepticons one by one and make them do it, if that’s what he had to do to justify their repairs.

The gunk did get all over his hands, though. It was nasty work and he made a note to drop by during First Aid’s shift to see how he was handling the task. Ambulon had seemed unbothered by it before they’d gotten… sidetracked.

Whether Ambulon actually needed as much time as it took to finish the discharges or not, Ratchet didn’t see him again until he was done. His paint was patchier than before, but his field was calm and his posture no longer anxious when he emerged from the office. “I can take over now,” he said, eyeing the mess on Ratchet’s hands. “Be careful cleaning that off.”

“I will,” Ratchet promised. He wasn’t going to let it get under the patch and into his lines. 

Ambulon’s gaze was flat, almost emotionless, like he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything more. Still, he dredged up a flicker of concern in his field for Ratchet, but he didn’t say anything else. He moved to the other side of the berth the corpse was laid out on and started peeling away myomer substructures to save as much as he could while he dug out wires, struts and mechanical components.

As he (carefully) washed his hands, Ratchet thought about what to do next. He wanted to talk to Drift, but Drift was on duty troubleshooting, and after that he was due on the bridge. Drift took his job seriously; even if they weren’t interrupted during the conversation, this was the sort of thing that could put him off balance and affect his focus for work. It wouldn’t be fair to do that to him, and besides, Ratchet realized as he dried his hands, he didn’t really know what he wanted to say yet anyway.

Waving goodbye to Ambulon, Ratchet headed off to Swerve’s to try and figure that out. Tough subjects were always easier to think about with engex.

The bar was lightly crowded when Ratchet got there; full enough to create a soft din of mechs speaking, laughing, and swearing, but empty enough that Swerve was going around the room to take orders and deliver drinks instead of making people come to the bar. Skater, Borer, and Flex were in one booth with a large banner spread out on the table between them with a sketch of some sort of cybercat, debating loudly over drinks. Brainstorm (and his briefcase) were at the bar, talking animatedly to Pipes and Blaster. Rung sat in the far corner booth, watching the activity.

Before Ratchet could find somewhere else to sit, Rung spotted him and waved him over. “Ratchet! It’s good to see you. Have you started  _ The Spear of Dreams  _ yet?”

Well, okay. He could talk about book club with the mech. “Drift and I started it together after I gave him his copy,” Ratchet said, sliding in across from Rung. “I didn’t get very far, but already it’s very different from  _ Clockwork Criminal.” _

“Fantasy adventure instead of noir pulp fiction. Entirely different genres.” Rung smiled, waving down Swerve. “Broadening our literary horizons.”

“A worthy goal. I’ll reserve my final judgment for when I finish it, but so far it’s not really grabbing me. My usual,” Ratchet told Swerve.

“You got it!” Swerve said brightly, usual broad smile on his reconstructed face.

“Well, nothing can appeal to everyone.” Rung said, ordering a refill for himself. “To be perfectly honest, I chose it primarily to appeal to Whirl and Drift. I don’t expect Whirl is going to return for very many meetings, since he’s busy with the 4L among his usual pursuits, and I hope to catch his interest strongly enough he doesn’t forget the library exists.”

“So you picked a novel that’s part of a long-running series he can keep reading, even if he stops coming to book club. Clever.” There was a good chance it would work, too, if Whirl enjoyed the first story. “Either way, it definitely caught Drift’s interest.”

Behind his glasses, Rung’s optics gleamed with interest. “I have to say, I was somewhat surprised when you said he would like to join us.”

“Really?” That surprised Ratchet, until he remembered that while he knew about Deadlock’s long-ago academic pursuits, very few others did — especially among the Autobots. He smiled, not wanting to spoil the surprise. “I’ll let him speak for himself at the next meeting, but suffice it to say, I think he’ll be checking out the entire series eventually as well.” If only to see if his theory held any weight for the series as a whole.

“Splendid. I don’t get surprised by people often, but I’d expected him to be more interested in the 4L as well.” 

“Anything else I can get you two?” Swerve interrupted, returning with a tray and setting their drinks in front of them. Rung’s was a multicolored, layered thing that looked as toxic as Whirl’s Nasty Pink swill, but Ratchet knew was barely more energetic than energon tea. Of the five or so drinks on Ratchet’s list of “usuals”, Swerve had decided to bring him a Perfect Fury, a bright blue drink that would get Ratchet  _ nice _ and buzzed pretty quickly. “Skids has decided to learn baking, so we have a selection of pretty random treats available. Limited time offer. When he gets bored, they’ll be gone forever.”

“I’ll take advantage while they’re available then,” Ratchet said. “How about you, Rung?”

“Sounds interesting. I think I’d like a plate as well.”

“Two plates coming up.” Swerve collected up Rung’s empty glass and hummed a tune Ratchet didn’t recognize as he left.

“With any luck, at least some of them will be palatable,” Ratchet chuckled, fully expecting most of them would be. They’d at least be safe to consume. Swerve hadn’t tried testing the health and safety regulations again after being closed down once.

“Baking sounds like a good hobby for Skids,” Rung said idly, stirring his drink to mix the layers before taking a sip through the curly straw. “It’s a surprisingly complex skill and mastering it will require more than simply following the recipe. And while there are some resources available — someone donated a cookbook to the library — there are no masters of the art here on the ship for him to observe.”

“He probably will get more out of it if he has to experiment for himself than if he just watched someone,” Ratchet agreed. As useful as being a superlearner was, it wasn’t without its downsides. “Unless he suddenly discovers through his experimenting that he already knows how without remembering where he learned it.”

“That is a possibility,” Rung acknowledged. “And one he runs into fairly often.” He didn’t say more about that. Probably because he was seeing Skids for his amnesia. Rung sighed heavily. “I miss having colleagues to consult,” he admitted.

“It is nice not to be working alone,” Ratchet said, thinking of Ambulon and First Aid. Ambulon… “Are you not able to bounce ideas off Smokescreen?” 

“I can, and do, but Smokescreen’s training was done by the military, once he’d shown an aptitude for this work, and high command realized there just weren’t enough psychiatrists to keep all the soldiers functional.” Rung poked his drink with his straw. “As a result, he’s rather focused on those ailments common in soldiers. Suppressing memories is a not uncommon reaction to trauma, but Skids… his symptoms don’t fit the usual pattern.”

“His amnesia is very unique.” Ratchet had certainly never seen anything quite like it before, and he wasn’t unfamiliar with combat stress symptoms himself. “No matter how many times he asks me to look, I haven’t been able to find a physical cause.” At least Skids had stopped asking him for answers he couldn’t provide. “I hesitate to ask, but have either you or Skids asked Chromedome to take a look?”

“I approached Chromedome to see if he would be willing, yes. I was informed that Skids had beaten me to it and that there was nothing he could do.”

So much for that idea. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“Two plates of mystery treats!” Swerve announced, returning and setting the plates down. “Anything else?”

“Nothing for me.”

“I’m good.”

“Great! Let me know what you think — here’s a card to rank your favorites,” Swerve said, flourishing a piece of flimsy. “Can’t make any promises they’ll stay around, but Skids would still appreciate the feedback.”

“We can do that.” Ratchet took the flimsy, and Swerve spun away to check in on the next table. “Who wants to go first?”

“I will.” Carefully perusing the selection on his plate (helpfully sorted into piles and numbered one through six, probably to make filling out the feedback card easier), Rung picked something that looked like an off-color rust stick. He examined it from every angle, uncertain about the odd color, then took a tentative bite. “Oh!” His other hand went to his mouth in surprise. “That’s  _ sour.” _

“Good sour, or bad sour?”

“Surprising sour,” Rung laughed. He hummed, contemplating the rest of the treat in his hand and the pile on his plate. “I think the experiment requires a repeat to clarify results.” He ate the rest of the stick, lips puckering at the taste.

Ratchet chuckled. Apparently the experiment had been worth repeating. Looking down at his own numbered lineup, he chose a slightly malformed acrylic bubble and squeezed it gently to test its firmness. It didn’t give, so he popped it into his mouth whole and sucked rather than biting down. There was almost no flavor at first, but as the outer layer melted, it developed a nice, subtle, semi-sweet tang. “This one’s good. Mild, but good.”

“And I’ve decided this is a good sour. Want one?” Rung offered, sliding the plate a little closer to Ratchet so he could take it if he wished.

“In the interest of the experiment,” Ratchet said with mock-resignation, but he was curious. He took one of the sour-sticks to try after he finished his current treat, and moved his plate so Rung could reach it easily as well. 

They spent some time trading treats, weighing in on how good they were and ranking their favorites. There was only one that Ratchet was unable to finish, but it wasn’t because there was anything wrong with the treat — he just didn’t like the combination of zinc and anodized aluminum. 

They waved down Swerve with the feedback flimsy, and Ratchet ordered a second drink. Somehow his first had disappeared while he was occupied by the treats. 

“Has Smokescreen told you what he wants to do to our library?” Rung asked, returning to his own drink.

“The way you say that makes me think he’s had more ideas than the few I’ve heard so far.” Some of which were actually pretty good ideas, really. “I’m all for the beanbags myself, if he can find the materials for them.”

“He wants to paint the walls. Which I have no objection to in  _ theory, _ but his ideas of calm and soothing are so off the wall I wanted to ask you if he’s actually color blind.” Rung took a sip of his drink, then folded his hands in front of himself, gracing Ratchet with an expectant look. “Is he?”

“Not unless he’s managed to catch a lob ball to the head since the last time I saw him,” Ratchet said. “Some people just have different ideas about what’s soothing.” Rung pinged him a picture, which had to be a piece of concept art Smokescreen was drawing inspiration from. It was pretty gaudy, predominantly gold and fuschia with little bits of other colors to make the two primaries stand out better, brighter, like the inside of a casino. “…I can see why you’d wonder if he was color blind.” 

Swerve arrived with his drink and Ratchet took a long sip, still staring at the image on his HUD. “That really is something — something he should not, under any circumstances, be allowed to do to the library.”

“I will inform him of your opinion,” Rung said solemnly. Then he smiled again. “Maybe you’d like to make some suggestions? If I pick another color scheme there won’t be anything he can do about it.”

“Tell him he can put his crazy colors on one of the beanbags if he really needs to have them somewhere. Then you can shove it in a corner where no one will put their optics out on it.” Ratchet tried to picture what a soothing color scheme would look like for him. “If it were up to me, I’d pick something on the cooler side of the spectrum. I have enough red and pink and orange around me at work.” He frowned, trying to remember all the color symbolism Drift had been bombarding him with. “Maybe not blue. Or purple.”

Rung tilted his head curiously. “It sounds like there’s a story there.”

“Probably, but you’d have to ask Drift for the details. Or Cyclonus, maybe.” Ratchet shrugged. He took another sip of his drink; he was starting to feel  _ very _ nicely buzzed. “It’s Spectralist stuff. Drift and I were talking about colors and he said blue was associated with death. Purple’s for grief. Why? I don’t know, but apparently it’s a thing.”

“Interesting.” Rung’s gaze made Ratchet think it was Ratchet himself he was finding  _ interesting, _ not Drift and Cyclonus’ hangups with specific colors. He didn’t pursue it, though. “Are you ready to talk about what was bothering you when you came in?” he asked instead.

“Who says anything was bothering me?” Ratchet said quickly. Too quickly. Rung arched an eyebrow, and Ratchet sighed. “Fine, something was bothering me.”

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

“I didn’t come to talk about it, I came to think about it,” Ratchet protested. He hadn’t done a very good job of it so far, though. “It’s… Without going into detail,” since it was personal information, “there’s an unpleasant past event I need to reconcile with the present.”

“Alright. Without going into detail,” Rung echoed, “tell me what you’re thinking.”

Ratchet swirled his drink, trying to put his thoughts into words. “I’m trying to find the balance between acknowledging the past as an inescapable part of what makes us who we are now with leaving the past behind to become a better person.”

“That does sound difficult.” Rung stirred his own drink with his straw. “How are you doing so far?”

“Personally? I’m leaning toward looking forward.” But he knew not everyone took that point of view. “The problem is this particular issue doesn’t just involve me.”

“Well you can’t control what side of an issue others fall on,” Rung said thoughtfully. “You can advocate, advise, cajole and even bargain, but you can’t change who they are and what they’re willing or unwilling to forgive.”

“No. I suppose I can’t. Even if I’m hoping for their sake — and mine, if I’m being honest — that this is something he can move beyond.”

“Hope is often a good thing too.” Rung finished his drink and gestured to Ratchet’s nearly empty one. “Would you like a third?”

Drift still wouldn’t be free to talk to for another full shift, even if Ratchet was less apprehensive about it now. How did Rung do that? He’d barely even said anything, but somehow Ratchet didn’t feel so conflicted over his own opinions anymore. “I would,” he said, finishing the one in his hand. “But I think I’ll slow down a little bit.”

“They do tend to taste better when you actually taste them.”

“Amazing how that works, isn’t it?”

Impromptu therapy session over, Ratchet and Rung went back to discussing more innocuous subjects over their third drinks. They succeeded in working out an alternative color scheme for the library decor so Rung could gently rebuff Smokescreen’s suggestions, and talked some more about the differences between genres of literature. Rung said he was looking forward to seeing what genres everyone liked best through their selections for the club to read, and Ratchet threatened to subject them all to a technical medical journal, which only made Rung laugh. 

They talked a little about getting other mechs involved, both in the book club and in the library as a whole. Rung gently prodded Ratchet about his “pre-war tastes” and Ratchet cheerfully stonewalled him about the collection he’d claimed and handed over on Drift’s behalf. They debated the merits of flyers versus sending out a ping via the off-duty intercom frequencies. Ratchet was confident that flyers would be more effective.

“A ping is a one-time announcement, easily forgotten if people don’t just tune it out in the first place. Flyers are less official, and if we put them up as well as hand them out, they’ll remind anyone who’s still thinking about stopping by.”

Rung made a sound of agreement, but, “Pings are how official events and parties are arranged,” he argued gently. “Like the exorcism. You can’t say  _ that _ didn’t catch everyone’s interest.”

“An exorcism is a lot more exciting and exotic than a library,” Ratchet pointed out, but Rung wasn’t exactly wrong. “Why not do both? Ultra Magnus isn’t going to like the idea of pasting up flyers everywhere very much, but maybe he’ll be a little more lenient if we let him send out an official announcement first.”

“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll see if Smokescreen will approach him about it.” Rung took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth from his subspace. “He’s less than thrilled with me at the moment.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why,” Ratchet said, the very picture of innocence.

“Me neither,” Rung lied cheerfully and exchanged a look with Ratchet. They both wound up laughing.

Eventually, even going slow, they both reached the bottom of their drinks. Ratchet declined a fourth when Swerve came over to check on them. “I can still walk,” probably, “and I’d like to keep it that way,” he said, “though I will probably head out soon, nice as the conversation has been.”

Rung also declined another drink. “Me as well. I have some reading to do.”

“Closing your tabs tonight or some other time?” Swerve asked, collecting up the empty cups.

“Another time.” Ratchet smiled. “You know I’ll be back.”

“Of course.”

“I will pay up, though,” Rung said. 

“Great! Pleasure doing business with you.” With a cheerful wave after the transaction went through, Swerve went to check on the other tables. The bar looked more crowded than it’d been when Ratchet sat down.

“Shall we give our table to someone else now?” Ratchet slid to the edge of his seat, preparing to stand. “Reading sounds like a good idea. Maybe I’ll get through a full chapter before I doze off.”

“Do you need help?” Rung asked politely, sliding out of his own seat. “I could stand there and get squished if you fall on me. Or call someone.”

“I think…” Using the table for leverage, Ratchet carefully got to his feet and checked his equilibrium. He only felt a little unsteady standing still, but while walking would indeed be possible, he’d need to go slow. “I’ll be alright. Don’t let me keep you, and definitely don’t let me squish you.”

Rung didn’t offer again. “No squishing. Recharge well, Ratchet.”

“Thanks. See you around.”

Rung disappeared into the crowd. Ratchet focused on putting one foot in front of the other. His processor was still fairly clear — he was  _ drunk,  _ not  _ trashed  _ — but his gyros were having trouble stabilizing. Unless he was looking at them when he picked up his feet, he lost track of where they were in relation to the plane of the floor. Totally manageable, but it meant he had to keep stopping to look up and make sure there was nothing in front of him before looking down again to take a step. Wash, rinse, repeat.

He turned toward his habsuite when he reached the hall. A pair of feet that weren’t his appeared in his field of vision. When he looked up, he found Rung standing there, watching him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?” he asked gently.

“If it’ll make you feel better,” Ratchet conceded. “At this rate it’ll take me forever to get back without someone to steady me, and we’ve already established I’m not squishing you.”

“No squishing. He’s on his way.” 

“He?”

At first Ratchet thought the huge blue mech was Ultra Magnus and wrinkled his nasal ridge at the thought of being on the receiving end of a lecture on the evils of drink, but then he blinked and saw the blue was too bright. 

“Rung. Ratchet,” Fortress Maximus greeted, sounding a bit nervous. 

“Ratchet just needs someone to walk him home,” Rung explained with a reassuring smile. “Someone who won’t get squished if he falls on him.”

“Thanks for being willing to help me,” Ratchet said, holding out a hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not so far gone I need carrying.”

Fort Max held out his own hand, offering his arm; Ratchet couldn’t exactly sling his arm over the warden’s shoulders! Not without being carried, which he’d just denied he needed. “You’re welcome, Ratchet.” His field was prickly and anxious. Rung gave him an encouraging smile when he looked back at the smallest of the three of them. “Which way?” he asked, turning back to Ratchet, who was now gratefully leaning on his arm.

“This way,” Ratchet said, nodding the direction they were facing. “I’ll let you know where to turn.” Even though Fort Max knew how to get from here to the medbay. 

As they set off, Ratchet tried to figure out why Fort Max seemed as off-balance emotionally as he was physically. “First time away from the cell block in a while?” he guessed.

“I was granted permission to walk around without an escort a while ago,” Fort Max answered a little evasively.

“But it still feels new,” Ratchet interpreted. “It’s alright. It’ll get less strange with time.” Once he had permission to linger in the common areas on the ship, it would get even easier. Ratchet hoped that would come soon. “Has Rung told you about the new library?”

“A little. He brought me a book.” He seemed a little uncomfortable with that, too. “I wasn’t sure what the point was, but I’m enjoying it.”

“Enjoying it  _ is _ the point with some books.” Fortress Maximus had come online after the start of the war though, and reading for fun had fallen a bit out of fashion for most by then. Something to do with the lack of free time for peaceful pursuits, and all the libraries being gone. “Which one did he bring you?”

_ “Phantom Thief. _ It’s,” Fort Max hesitated as though he wasn’t sure how to describe it. “It’s a mystery? The main character reminds me uncomfortably of Prowl. I suspect Rung is trying to tell me something.”

“Knowing Rung, that wouldn’t surprise me. Sometimes ideas are easier to confront with the distance that comes from reading about them in a fictional context. But,” Ratchet wobbled slightly as he raised his free hand for emphasis, “you don’t have to take anything from a story you don’t want to. Which is kind of wonderful, because a book won’t get mad at you if you think it’s a load of slag.”

To Ratchet’s surprise, Fortress Maximus burst out laughing. It was a quick, uncomfortable sounding laugh, more like a pressure valve releasing than true hilarity, but it was genuine.

Ratchet smiled. “If you’re enjoying reading as a solo activity, maybe you should think about giving our book club a try when that’s an option for you. It can be fun to talk about which parts of a story you thought were good and which were slag in a group.”

“It sounds like more therapy,” was the other mech’s observation.

“Rung’s ulterior motives aside, the last meeting was very casual and stayed focused on the book we’d read, when we didn’t get derailed by things like sportsball.” The potential had been there for it to turn into Group Therapy Lite, but it hadn’t actually gone that direction. Yet. “It’s not for everyone though. Actually, speaking of sportsball, that’s something else you could try out. You’d probably be good at it.”

Fort Max looked a little apprehensive. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be in the social areas of the ship yet.”

Not yet, but when Drift had mentioned the warden’s upcoming review, he’d seemed to think that privilege would be granted. “Whatever pace works for you. Sometimes slower is better. Case in point,” Ratchet said, indicating his own shambling steps, which nonetheless had just about bought them back to his habsuite. 

“Yes, of course.” The big mech squinted at the door next to the medbay. “This one is yours?”

“I’m on the other side,” Ratchet said, pinging the door to open. “Thank you for keeping me on my feet.”

Mild embarrassment flushed through Fort Max’s EM field. “I wasn’t going to say no when Rung asked for a favor. I owe him a lot.”

“He’s a good mech,” Ratchet agreed. “And so are you.” 

“That means a lot, that you’d say so.” Fort Max stopped at the open door so that Ratchet could grab the doorframe. “Recharge well.”

With a final nod of thanks, Ratchet turned and made his way over to his berth. It was a relief to lie down, but he still pulled out a datapad after getting himself plugged in. He’d recharge soon, but first he had a chapter to read.

.

.

.


	16. Chapter 16

.

.

.

Ratchet slept off his overcharge and woke with only a little bit of a headache. His gyros were working right again, so he called that a win. A quick check of his chronometer showed he’d managed to wake up with a little over a joor before his shift; perfect for what he wanted to accomplish before babysitting a sullen, suspicious Silverstorm. 

Before heading to the bridge to see if he could catch Drift at the end of his shift, Ratchet peeked in on First Aid in the medbay. The junior medic had one of the corpses lying mostly in pieces on one of the berths, spread out like the diagram in a medical textbook. His cheery, absent-minded humming stopped as he looked up.

“Hello Ratchet.” He  _ sounded _ fine. In fact he sounded downright happy, despite the rather macabre display in front of him. “Do you need a medic or are you checking up on me?”

“Not checking up so much as checking in,” Ratchet said, coming over for a better look. “I wasn’t sure how much of this sort of thing you’d done before.”

“A little. Pharma took it on for the most part.” First Aid stepped back so Ratchet could see. It was a beastformer of some sort, with teeth and claws and a nonstandard joint arrangement on his legs, and First Aid really was laying the parts out as he extracted them like the illustration in a textbook. One leg had been stripped of all of the armor and substructures to clearly show how the struts were attached to each other, while the other had been stripped only of armor to display how the mech’s fluid system was embedded in the myomer musculature. “I did do autopsies in medical school though.”

“And learned well, it seems.” Clearly Ratchet didn’t need to worry about whether or not First Aid could handle the task. He wasn’t unsettled at all; if anything, it was a little unsettl _ing_ watching him hum over the corpses. “You’re using salvaging as a chance to review anatomy?”

__

“Sure. Why not?”

__

Ratchet couldn’t think of a good reason why not. “It’s a good opportunity,” he conceded. “Just be conscious of who comes in and cover the berth when you’re working on patients. We don’t have much of an area for medical staff only, and this might bother some people.”

__

“Will do,” First Aid practically sang. “I have been already. Did you need anything else?”

__

“Nope. If you’re good, I’m good.” He could still use a few kliks to finish adjusting his thinking, but otherwise, he was good. “Keep up the good work. I’ll be back in a bit.”

__

“Unless something happens, I’ll have this one cleaned up before your shift. Promise.” First Aid did that smile Ratchet still wasn’t sure how he managed to do without a mouth. Maybe it was a First Aid thing?

__

Ratchet didn’t question it. He just let First Aid go back to his humming, wondering if his current behavior was related to his demotion on Delphi.

__

By the time he reached the bridge, he’d put the whole thing out of his head.

__

Peeking in, Ratchet saw Rodimus was already there. He and Drift were talking, laughing, and as Ratchet watched he wrapped Drift in a quick hug before shooing him off the bridge. Drift threw a sarcastic remark back at him, then saw Ratchet and his optics lit up with a smile.

__

“Hey,” he greeted. He reached for Ratchet’s hand as he drew close. 

__

“Hey yourself.” Ratchet reached back, squeezing Drift’s hand as their fingers wound together. “Got a few breems for me before I have to report for duty?”

__

“Of course. Where to?”

__

“Somewhere… private.” Ratchet hadn’t come with a specific destination in mind, but he didn’t want this to become a confrontation. Someplace a bit more neutral than either of their quarters would probably be best. “We could see if there’s a quiet corner free on the observation deck.”

__

“Sounds good.” Drift returned his hand-squeeze and led the way with a bounce.

__

They got lucky, finding an unoccupied alcove easily on the largely empty deck. Ratchet wasn’t surprised, given the lack of anything particularly interesting beyond the windows at the moment. No comets, no meteors, no solar flares, just softly twinkling stars. It was still pretty, and they spent a moment standing there in silence, enjoying the atmosphere.

__

“Happy as I am to see you,” Drift said after a few kliks, turning to look at Ratchet, “you don’t come looking for me before shift unless something’s up. So what’s up?”

__

Ratchet sighed, hoping things weren’t about to get too awkward. “When Ambulon came in to take over for me last cycle, he noticed the patch on my wrist. Turns out he’d been watching for it.”

__

“Oh.” Drift’s shoulders hunched and his field filled with guilt. “Did I ever…?”

__

“Did you ever bite him? No. But he said you were stationed at the same front briefly, and during that time… He said the medics there didn’t feel safe refusing you.”

__

Shame dripped almost physically off him. “They most likely didn’t.”

__

“He’s been afraid you would do the same thing here,” Ratchet said gently. “I told him what we had done was a consensual trade and that you hadn’t coerced me, but he was worried.”

__

“He’s a good mech.”

__

“Yes he is. But Drift,” Ratchet reached out and laid his hands on Drift’s shoulders, “even if he’s right about what you did in the past, he’s wrong about you now.”

__

Drift blinked in surprise. “What?”

__

“You’re not using your rank on this ship to force anyone to do anything they don’t want to do. You’re not making advances I don’t feel safe to turn down, and I haven’t seen anything that makes me think you aren’t just as respectful with everyone else.”

__

“I didn’t want to be that person anymore,” Drift said, a little plaintively. His field was still drenched in guilt for his past actions, and that, coupled with his complete lack of any attempt to explain or excuse what he’d done, made Ratchet even more confident he had genuinely changed.

__

“I believe you’re not.” Ratchet stepped closer, pulling Drift into a hug. “I believe in the person you are now.”

__

Drift’s frame shook as he returned the hug, a little desperately. “I’m sorry.” He burrowed into Ratchet’s arms, pressing his face into his neck. “I’m sorry.” 

__

“I know.” It was written in every line of his frame and pulse of his field. It was both painful to see him so upset, and reassuring. If he hadn’t been sorry, hadn’t been aware of and willing to admit that what he’d done in the past was wrong, then there would have been a problem. “I can see that. Hopefully, someday, Ambulon will be able to see it too.”

__

“Tell him Whirl’s never had any problem beating me to slag if needed,” Drift said softly. “Whatever our relative ranks. It’ll make him feel somewhat safer, at least.”

__

“I can do that,” Ratchet said with a hint of a chuckle, “though I think he’s already worked it out for himself to an extent.” The way he’d bought up Whirl looking out for First Aid certainly implied he was relying on him as a protector of sorts. 

__

“Whirl’s lack of respect for authority is legendary, but he’d be worried our shared history would interfere,” Drift said, still softly, almost meek, drawing a little out of the hug so they could speak without pulling away entirely. “You can even go ahead and tell him how much Ultra Magnus dislikes me. Rodimus wouldn’t tolerate Deadlock on his ship either, but he and I are friends so it’d ring a little hollow.”

__

“Given the way he was encouraging me to go to security, I think it’s safe to say he trusts the other officers to take action if necessary,” Ratchet said, “but I will reassure him if it comes up. That said, I’m not sure I’m the right person to address this going forward.”

__

“I’m not going to confront him.” Drift’s voice sounded miserable. “That’s what… I would have done then.”

__

“I didn’t mean to imply you should. Not alone, anyway.” That would, as Drift rightly pointed out, have all the wrong connotations. “But I think that talking either through a proxy, or with a mediator present, might be a good idea. At the very least, if concessions need to be made for either of you now that this is out in the open, that’s something that’s better sorted out sooner than later.”

__

“If you feel it’s best.” Drift laid his head on Ratchet’s shoulder. “I’ll follow your lead here.”

__

“Thank you for your trust.” Ratchet brought a hand up to Drift’s head, stroking the points of his finials. “I’m sure this won’t surprise you, but as CMO I need to know. Does this change your comfort level with Ambulon, and would you have difficulty with him treating you?”

__

“He’s the victim.” Drift leaned into the touch, but was apparently too miserable to purr. “Shouldn’t you be asking him?”

__

“I will be asking him,” Ratchet said, because of  _ course  _ he would. “But you’re here right now and he’s not, and you’re part of the equation, too. If he says he’s still comfortable treating you, are you comfortable receiving treatment from him?”

__

Suspicion and determination chased each other in a tight circle in Drift’s field before determination won out. “Yes.”

__

“In both routine and emergency settings?”

__

“Yes.”

__

Ratchet nodded. “I’ll speak with him next, and we’ll go from there. Until then, it’s probably better if you see me or First Aid for minor repairs.” Which he already was, because Ambulon had been leery of Deadlock, but now that the reason was out in the open Ratchet wanted to set it more firmly as policy.

__

“Of course.” 

__

“And I’m sure it goes without saying that it might be a good idea to talk to Rung about this, whether he winds up involved in a mediatory capacity or not,” Ratchet added, “but I’m not going to insist. If you don’t want to talk to him though, you should avoid him completely. Blasted mech is sneaky.”

__

“I have an appointment this cycle. This…” Drift shuddered. “This wasn’t what I was going to talk about, but it’s probably more important.”

__

“Oh?” That was a surprise. “What were you going to talk to him about?”

__

“It doesn’t matter.” Drift tried to brush it off. “I have a question for you, though,” he said tentatively, before Ratchet could press him to answer.

__

“Sure,” Ratchet said, not fighting the subject change. “What is it?”

__

“Did you still want your half, or did you want something else? I wouldn’t blame you,” he added quickly. “What you wanted requires a lot of trust and I…” He looked down and away. “I don’t deserve that.”

__

Ratchet tightened the hug. It was easy enough to understand where that was coming from — damn guilt — but he didn’t agree. “You have my trust whether you think you deserve it or not. Yes, I still want my half.”

__

“I won’t hurt you,” Drift promised. “I’ll do everything right and make it perfect for you.”

__

“I look forward to it.” 

__

Drift didn’t seem like he was in any hurry to move. Ratchet didn’t have a problem with that. He let the conversation drop, focusing on the stressed but fortunately not distraught mech in his arms. Looking out the window at the stars, Ratchet continued to hold Drift, gently petting his helm and letting him know just by being there that he wasn’t ending their relationship over what he’d learned.

__

“I'm glad I didn’t run into you as Deadlock,” Drift said quietly. 

__

“Honestly? So am I.” Ratchet couldn’t imagine many ways for that to have gone well. “This is a lot better.”

__

“I prefer us, now. I didn’t get off on the power or the pain, but I still caused it and I couldn’t even feel guilt. I didn’t know I should. That’s not an excuse or a reason.” Drift nuzzled Ratchet’s shoulder. Trying to self-soothe, Ratchet thought, even as he stumbled through his confession. “It’s a failing. Even if I’d known, I doubt it would have changed what I chose to do.” 

__

“It’s a good thing that’s changed.” Honestly was probably better than platitudes, and Ratchet wasn’t great with platitudes anyway. “I couldn’t have been with someone like that.”

__

“You wouldn’t have said no, with the right incentive. The life of a fellow prisoner.” A sick, nauseated feeling overtook Drift’s field. “I have nightmares that start like that.”

__

“I wouldn’t have had a  _ relationship  _ with someone like that,” Ratchet clarified. “Not like the one we  _ actually  _ have, so don’t dwell on the nightmares. Alright?” There was a line between confessing to unburden the spark and torturing oneself with the past, and only one of the two was useful.

__

“Alright,” Drift repeated. The nausea ebbed and Ratchet felt the speedster’s vent-cycles slow, too even to be natural. Meditation. Longer than the micro meditations he usually engaged in, but Ratchet supposed he was more stressed than usual right now. “Would it offend you if I said you were mine?” he asked after a couple of kliks. 

__

“Generally speaking, no.” Ratchet smiled, warming at the thought of one use in particular. “Especially if you’re saying it to let other people know I’m off the market.”

__

“That’s what it means.” Drift drew back, calmer now, even if it still was the semi-artificial calm of consciously controlling his vent-cycles and field. “Among Decepticons it would also mean no one would harass or harm you without dealing with me as well.”

__

“That I have your protection, in other words?”

__

“Yes.” His gaze slid away from Ratchet’s. “I would like to offer you that.”

__

“Do I get to offer you the same?” They each had different kinds of protection they could offer. And besides… “I’d like to be able to call you mine as well.”

__

Warm happiness wound through Drift’s field. “I’d like that.” He looked up with a small curve of lips on his otherwise serious expression. “Belonging to someone does mean exclusive.”

__

“Then that settles it.” Ratchet lowered his chevron to Drift’s helm crest. “You’re mine.”

__

Drift’s smile widened, spreading to the rest of his face. “You should tell Ambulon that too,” he said, bunting back. “If I belong to you, it means I’m not biting anyone else.”

__

“Noted.” A thought occurred to him, and Ratchet chuckled. “I wonder who’s going to win that pool.”

__

“Which one?”

__

“The one for when we announce that we’re exclusive. And serious.”

__

Drift chuckled, his frame finally relaxing.

__

They were able to spend the rest of the joor together without that cloud of stress hanging over them. They just cuddled, and watched the stars. Ratchet spent more time watching Drift than the stars, but he felt like he was entitled. He  _ was _ entitled; they’d just agreed to it. The thought still made Ratchet feel warm. Even if neither of them had been seeing any others, they hadn’t talked about exclusivity or commitment before. It felt significant, more solid, to have that agreement. A milestone.

__

When Ratchet’s internal “it’s time to go to work” alarm went off, he regretfully unwound his arms from Drift’s shoulders. “Duty calls. I have a project to pick up before I start my shift.”

__

“I know about your project,” Drift said, just as reluctantly pulling away. His armor immediately tightened against his substructure defensively. Ratchet didn’t like seeing that, but there was nothing he could do about it right now. It would take time for this to be resolved. Hopefully talking to Rung later would help him. “Rodimus spent most of last shift complaining about it to me.”

__

“He’s that convinced it won’t work, is he?” Ratchet started walking, and Drift fell in beside him. “It’s not like I’m giving him free run of the ship, or even the medbay. If Silverstorm proves to be uncooperative, it isn’t going to cause a complete catastrophe.”

__

“I know. And he knows.” Drift shrugged. “Given his experiences, you can’t blame him for his suspicion, though. But he’s allowing it. Just,” he offered a smile, “don’t expect him to do it silently.”

__

“Oh, I would never make that mistake,” Ratchet snorted. Rodimus didn’t do silently. He didn’t even do quietly. “And I’m not saying he shouldn’t be suspicious. Of course he is. We all are. But if we let that suspicion make us paranoid and convince us there’s no point in even trying…” He sighed, irritated by how sappy what he was saying sounded but no less convinced it was true. “It’s part of that new open-mind thing I’ve been trying. We need to temper suspicion down into caution and approach each other as Cybertronians first. Ignoring factions would be naive, but if we keep drawing the same hard lines between them, this peace won’t last. It will just be another pause before the inevitable return to war.”

__

“Everyone gets a second chance, right?” Drift’s smile turned a crooked and a little self deprecating. 

__

“Exactly — everyone. Autobots included,” Ratchet said, knowing it was a chance not all of them would take. The inability to believe in or readily adjust to peace wasn’t unique to Decepticons, as certain tacticians had proven so well. “Does that make me crazy?”

__

“I don’t think so.” Drift’s hand sought out Ratchet’s, squeezing affectionately.

__

“Tell me if that changes,” Ratchet smiled. “And feel free to tell any or all of that to Rodimus next time he starts complaining. We have a chance to change for the better. It’d be a shame to waste it.”

__

“I will.”

__

Someone whistled as he passed them and Drift’s field turned to shy pleasure, even a little giddy, and he squeezed Ratchet’s hand again. 

__

“You’d think they’d be used to it by now,” Ratchet grinned, then called back over his shoulder, “Back off, he’s mine!”

__

The mech laughed good-naturedly. “Better you than me, doc. Bet he’s a handful!” He turned the corner, disappearing before Ratchet could holler back. No doubt he was going to go gossip to all his friends about this new development on the  _ Lost Light’s _ internal soap opera.

__

Drift’s field was still giddy.

__

Several hallways later, just outside the brig, Ratchet squeezed Drift’s fingers one last time and pulled his hand free. “Nice as this is,” he said, “I’m afraid I need to trade you out for a professional escort now.”

__

“Right. I’ll see you later. At Swerve’s? For a quick drink before I go on shift?” Cue the hopeful smile.

__

“It’s a date,” Ratchet agreed. “See you there.”

__

When he entered the brig, Ratchet found Brawn waiting there with Fort Max. “Is Silverstorm ready for transport then?” he asked, checking his chronometer. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

__

“I have him separated out, but thought it best to wait until you were here to get him cuffed,” the warden answered, not acknowledging the apology. Brawn just scowled and shrugged. “If you please.”

__

Fort Max had moved more than just Silverstorm, as it turned out. Three of the cells were more crowded than they had been previously, while two had fewer people. One mech, in one of the less crowded cells, yelled that he didn’t belong here and they needed to release him, while one of his cellmates screamed at him to pipe down. Both Fort Max and Brawn ignored the racket completely. Ragefire was in one of the more crowded cells, glaring out from one corner with suspicious — but not resentful — newly gold optics, while Silverstorm waited alone in what had been Ragefire’s cell while he was unconscious. 

__

Fort Max went up to the cell without hesitation, while the Decepticon waited, nervous and obviously covering it. He opened a slot on the door. “Hands,” the warden ordered. Obediently, Silverstorm stuck his hands out through the opening to be cuffed, then pulled them back in once they were secured so the door could be opened. 

__

They were being watched. Almost all of the other Decepticons showing varying amounts of interest in the procedure. Mechs laying on bare berths peeked out from under arms thrown across their optics, pretending they didn’t care, while others glared with obvious, keen interest. Ratchet followed Fort Max and Brawn’s example and refrained from saying anything. Prisoner politics could get ugly, and he didn’t want to accidentally contribute to causing trouble.

__

At least Silverstorm didn’t seem to be interested in causing trouble. He was by no means relaxed as they left the brig, but he walked between Brawl and Ratchet without deviating, and didn’t complain about being cuffed to the berth by his ankle when they arrived in the medbay.

__

“Here,” First Aid said, waiting to approach until after he was secured. He held out the bucket Ratchet had left out earlier, now filled with cleanser. “Figured you’d need this.”

__

“If he’s going to get any of these to a usable state, yes.” Ratchet took the bucket and set it beside Silverstorm. “Hopefully cleaning’s pretty self explanatory, but if you have any questions, ask me. I’ll check in with you throughout the shift, but you can call me over if you need anything as long as I’m not too busy.”

__

“Behave,” Brawn added, uncuffing the mech’s hands. 

__

“Whatever,” was Silverstorm’s response. He took a moment to get comfortable, watching Ratchet suspiciously.

__

_ “You want me to crack the whip over him?” _ Brawn asked, settling onto his own stool.

__

_ “No. If he wants to sit there and do nothing the whole shift, let him,”  _ Ratchet responded, turning away so he could finish going over the shift change with First Aid. As promised, the autopsy-in-progress had been finished up and hidden away.  _ “Feel free to remind him that if that’s what he chooses to do, however, I won’t be bringing him back and he won’t be able to trade for the repairs he needs.” _

__

_ “Gotcha.” _ Ratchet heard Brawn growl out something to that effect while the two medics conversed, to which Silverstorm responded with something akin to  _ I was just  _ **_sitting._ **

__

This was going to be a fun cycle, Ratchet could already tell.

__

Fortunately, First Aid had no issues to hand over. He had only had to deal with a few minor injuries — both before and after Ratchet had checked in on him earlier — and none of them had required complicated repairs.

__

“I think that’s everything, unless you wanted me to stay a little longer,” First Aid finished up, gaze flicking over to Silverstorm now sitting cross-legged on the berth with the cleanser bucket in front of him, bent over his first grimy part.

__

“I’ll be fine,” Ratchet said, waving him toward the door. “Go enjoy your off shift. Practice sportsball or something.”

__

“Oooh… I could make banners!”

__

“You’re not playing?”

__

“Nope,” First Aid sounded happy about this. “Whirl and Ambulon are though, so I need to have everything ready for their first games.”

__

“You should be bringing bandages, not banners,” Ratchet huffed, but didn’t go into a full-blown lecture. It was enough that only one of his staff would be out on the field. “What are you going to do when they’re playing against each other? I know they’re on different teams.”

__

“First Aid sandwich.”

__

Ratchet’s engine sputtered. “What?!”

__

First Aid burst out laughing. 

__

“…very funny,” Ratchet grumbled, realizing the joke. “You’re going to have to figure out some way to console the loser and celebrate with the victor though.”

__

“Or all of us celebrate together,” First Aid pointed out. 

__

“That,” Ratchet said, a smile returning to his face, “is a good way of looking at it. I hope they can see it that way too.”

__

“Ambulon and Whirl are fine,” the other medic assured him. “They aren’t in competition for my affection; there’d be more issues if they were on the same team, promise.” 

__

“Probably,” Ratchet had to admit. “Have fun making those banners.”

__

First Aid’s optic band sparkled. “Will do!” he sang, waving at both Brawn and Silverstorm (who ignored him) on the way out.

__

The mood in the medbay became decidedly more grim once First Aid and his pervasive cheer were gone. Brawn wasn’t actively antagonizing Silverstorm — mostly — and Silverstorm seemed to be willing to make a good faith effort — for now — but there was a definite sense that things could change any nanoklik. It was the kind of tension there was no way to actually defuse, just keep from blowing up, and that proved to be the biggest challenge of the shift. 

__

Not blowing up at some of the patients who came in with idiotic lob ball related injuries was  _ also  _ a challenge.

__

“Tell me,” Ratchet said with careful, deliberate patience, “what part of your processor decided it was a good idea to keep throwing a large, unwieldy chunk of metal around a court despite persistent fatigue warnings?”

__

Atomizer gave him a lopsided shrug. His left shoulder didn’t move. “It’s my draw arm. I power through fatigue warnings all the time.”

__

“In. Combat,” Ratchet ground out. “And I’m not thrilled with the frequency of strained cables in your post-battles, either. You don’t have to constantly push the limits of your specs, especially since  _ respecting  _ those limits generally leads to better performance in the long run. You wouldn’t want to completely blow your arm out in the first game and wind up benched for the rest of the season while you integrated a rebuild, would you?”

__

“Um… no?” 

__

The fact that it was phrased as a question did not give Ratchet any sort of warm fuzzy feelings. “Let me rephrase that,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “You aren’t going to blow out your arm and force me to bench you,  _ are you?” _

__

“Nope!”

__

“Better.” He still didn’t trust that Atomizer would take the warning to spark, but it was something. Ratchet popped the access panel over the affected shoulder and started applying a nanite-infused lubricant gel over the cables in question. “This should take care of it this time, as long as you don’t overwork it. Give the microtears a chance to repair themselves.”

__

“Thanks doc.” The archer held still while Ratchet took care of his shoulder. He tilted his head to look beyond the medic. “So what’s the deal with that?”

__

_ That _ being Silverstorm.

__

“He’s making himself useful,” Ratchet answered, gauging Atomizer’s reaction. “We worked out a deal: he’s got non-battle related repairs he needs, and I’m up to my optics in salvage. He takes care of one, I take care of the other.”

__

Atomizer’s EM field prickled with suspicion. Even though Ratchet was too far away to feel Silverstorm’s EM field, he imagined the sentiment was entirely returned.

__

“Be careful, doc,” Atomizer finally said, giving his arm an experimental twitch. “Not sure I could trust them as far as Tailgate can throw… anyone, really.”

__

“Brawn’s more than a match for him,” Ratchet said confidently. “If it doesn’t work out, he’ll be throwing Silverstorm right back in the brig.” Just, hopefully, not literally. “Raise your arm, there’s one more place I need to get this into.”

__

Atomizer raised his arm with a wince. “As long as you’re taking care of it.”

__

“Your concern is appreciated,” Ratchet said, using up the rest of the gel in the applicator, “but I’ve got it under control.” 

__

“Right. Don’t want them taking advantage of our generosity.” Atomizer tested his arm again, still wincing; it’d take some time for the nanites to do their work. 

__

As for the ‘Cons, Ratchet kind of wished they  _ would _ take advantage of his generosity. He didn’t have a problem putting them to work in theory, but fighting with Rodimus over giving them jobs to do wasn’t exactly fun for Ratchet. If they’d only  _ accept _ altruism, but the others still down in the brig were probably expecting Silverstorm to be tortured. He could only hope that Silverstorm would report back favorably to them, and that they wouldn’t assume he’d somehow betrayed them in order to gain preferential treatment.

__

Ratchet closed up the access panel and patted Atomizer’s uninjured shoulder. “You’re good to go. Do gentle exercises to keep it from seizing up, but no lifting  _ or lobbing  _ anything heavier than a datapad for the next cycle.”

__

With a put-upon sigh, Atomizer agreed, “Sure doc.”

__

“Alright, off with you.” Ratchet saw Atomizer out, then went over to check on Silverstorm’s progress. “Need a new bin yet?”

__

“Soon,” the ‘Con answered, tilting his mostly but not quite empty bin of dirty, greasy parts to show Ratchet. “Would like a clean bucket.”

__

Ew, yeah. He definitely needed some clean cleanser. “I’ll just swap that out,” Ratchet said, taking the bucket over to the sink to rinse it out. Not only was the cleanser cloudy, but there was a gritty layer of residue at the bottom of the bucket. That by itself suggested Silverstorm was doing a good job, even without inspecting the parts in the “clean” bin. 

__

“Here,” Ratchet brought over a fresh bucket a klik later. “Let me know when that gets too filthy to use.”

__

Ratchet registered a flicker of surprise in the mech’s field, but he accepted the bucket and rinsed off the brush and the part he’d kept scrubbing at. “Okay,” he said, for once more meek than suspicious.

__

Not wanting to push him, Ratchet left him and went back to his own work. Time would be the best way to convince him that he didn’t have a hidden agenda.

__

“Umm… Hey.” 

__

That wasn’t Silverstorm. Ratchet turned to see Hound hovering at the door to medbay. He was holding his arm — his  _ left, _ like Ratchet was dealing with some sort of curse on left arms this cycle — in a manner akin to Atomizer, except Hound had a large temp patch applied on his. Whatever was wrong, it looked a little more serious than strained myomer. “Got a klik, Ratch?”

__

“More lob ball injuries?” Ratchet asked with exasperation, waving him in and to the nearest berth.

__

“Naw.” Hound came in and took his seat. “I’m on salvage duty this shift. Rusted support beam broke loose and caught me on the arm. I’m not bleeding, but I’m not sure my arm’s functional.”

__

_ That  _ Ratchet couldn’t fault him for. “Did it knock you over, or just hit your arm?” He checked the patch; a hasty application, but whoever had put it on would have been expecting him to remove it. All it was there for was to keep out any additional contaminants from the dirty salvage operation. “Was anyone else hurt?”

__

“I don’t think so. I was the only one who needed a patch.” Hound offered a one-armed shrug.

__

So light dents at most on anyone else, but it had broken through Hound’s plating. “Move your hand,” Ratchet said, running a scan on the injured arm. Hound was right that nothing was bleeding, but Ratchet wasn’t surprised it wasn’t functioning properly. The main conduit for carrying electrical signals was compressed just below the patch. “Does it hurt, or is it numb?”

__

“Hurts up at the shoulder, but kind of numb further down.” Hound looked over at Silverstorm just in time to watch the Decepticon hastily return his attention to the salvaged elbow joint he was scrubbing. 

__

“Okay. Lie back and I’ll see what I can do about that.” Ratchet grabbed a couple of tools, then unspooled a cord so he could plug in and monitor what he was doing. His left arm wasn’t responding, so Hound opened the port on his right arm, laying it across his stomach as he laid back. “I can’t block the pain while I’m working entirely, since I need to monitor sensation, but I’m going to buffer it a bit. It’ll probably still hurt worse before it starts getting better though.”

__

“I’ll live though, right Ratch?” Hound smiled, turning it into a grim sort of joke.

__

“You’ll live,” Ratchet confirmed, affecting disappointment before smiling back. “In fact, of all the things you’ve lived through, this barely ranks.” 

__

“Had me worried there for a nanoklik,” Hound lied cheerfully; he hadn’t been worried at all.

__

Non-lethal as it was, the damage still took a while to repair. Two more lob ball victims came in while Ratchet was working on Hound, and he left both of them to wait while he finished. Neither were seriously hurt (one of them had actually come in to follow up on exactly the kind of internal warnings Atomizer had ignored, so good for him), and Ratchet didn’t feel bad at all about prioritizing a work-related injury over minor recreational ones.

__

Unlike Atomizer, Hound didn’t ask about Silverstorm’s presence, either because he had more experience with putting POWs to work or just more experience with Ratchet. Silverstorm, however, seemed interested in Hound, watching him intently, even when Brawn snapped at him to keep his optics on his work. Whatever he was thinking, Ratchet couldn’t deal with it until he said something about it, so he ignored the Decepticon while he finished reconnecting the neural wires, picked out debris, put on a new temp patch, and installed a new armor plate.

__

“Thanks, Ratch,” Hound said when Ratchet gave him permission to sit up again.

__

Ratchet wound up his cord and set aside the scanner. “How much longer is your shift?”

__

“We’re on the same schedule as bridge officers so… a few joors.”

__

“Take the rest of it off,” Ratchet said, putting the update in the system. “You’ll be fit for duty by your next shift, as long as you don’t stand under any more falling debris.”

__

“I’ll do my best.” Hound slid off the berth, but instead of immediately leaving he went over to Silverstorm. Ratchet didn’t hear the soft-spoken words, but he heard the ‘Con’s snapped reply of  _ I’m not stupid. _ Hound didn’t seem offended, but he took the bucket to the sink to dump out the dirty cleanser, while Ratchet started popping dents on his other patients.

__

_ “Everything okay over there?”  _

__

_ “Fine. Just getting him some new cleanser.” _

__

_ “Thanks. So far he’s been doing a good job.”  _

__

Hound didn’t let on that he’d been talking to anyone over comms. He rinsed the bucket and filled it again before putting it back down in front of Silverstorm, who immediately went back to cleaning without so much as a word of thanks.  _ “Looks like it. I don’t think he’ll tell you when he needs something, though. Rule number one of survival as a POW worker: don’t ever attract the overseer’s attention.” _

__

_ “I’ll keep that in mind.”  _ Silverstorm did seem to prefer keeping his head down, for the most part. It made Ratchet wonder if he’d been a POW before, and under which commander. He wasn’t going to ask, though. “Ultra Magnus just confirmed your leave for the rest of the shift, Hound,” he said out loud.

__

“Thanks Ratch. I think I’ll go take my medical leave and recharge.” Hound grinned, patted Silverstorm’s arm (ignoring Brawn’s bark to stay away from the prisoner) and left.

__

Hound’s arm turned out to be the worst injury Ratchet had to deal with that shift. A couple of others on the salvage team stopped by after Ultra Magnus released them, but only to pick up supplies to replenish what they’d used out of their field kits. Ratchet cleared out the two would-be athletes, checked on Silverstorm — and brought him a fresh box of filthy parts to work on — and was absorbed in making sure their own ready stocks of supplies were full when Ambulon arrived. 

__

He’d gotten his paint touched up, so it wasn’t as obvious just how much of it had flaked or been picked off the previous cycle. He glanced at Silverstorm as he came in, who hunched his shoulders at the attention of the other medic, but didn’t try to engage him. “Any pass ons?”

__

“Nope, and the only potential bounceback you need to worry about is Atomizer. He’s supposed to be taking it easy, but…” Ratchet shrugged, then turned to Brawn. “I need a word with Ambulon in the office, then we’ll be good to go.”

__

“Sure. I’ll get him cuffed for you while you do.” Taking the hint, Silverstorm put the part he was cleaning aside and started putting brushes and rags back in their bucket.

__

Ambulon followed Ratchet to the office. He felt the other medic take the chance to scan his arm. He needn’t have worried; the holes had closed up and Ratchet’s systems were busily incorporating the patch already, even if the telltale slight displacement of his armor was still there.

__

“I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk much about this,” Ratchet said once the door was closed, “but I do need to follow up on a couple of things from our earlier conversation.”

__

“I understand.”

__

“First of all then: I’ve been reassured, and asked to pass along the assurance, that Whirl has absolutely no problem beating Drift to slag if he thinks it’s warranted.”

__

“That… helps.” Ambulon looked away, embarrassed. Or maybe just aware that that wasn’t something most Autobots would find comfort in.

__

“Secondly,” Ratchet continued without commenting, “Drift said that I’m ‘his’, and he’s mine. We’re exclusive.”

__

Ambulon barked out a laugh that was only slightly hysterical. “That’s a… really unusual arrangement.”

__

“Maybe.” More common among Autobots than Decepticons, but still not exactly prevalent. “The point is he’s not looking to make other arrangements or trades with anyone else. Just me.”

__

“And you’re still alright? With being his?” Ambulon’s gaze wandered down to Ratchet’s wrist for a moment.

__

“I am,” Ratchet said, muting just how happy he really was out of consideration, though he let enough of it into his field to show that he meant what he was saying. “If that changes, I will do something about it, but right now things between us are fine.”

__

“Then I’ll stay out of it,” Ambulon conceded. “But you’re a good boss. For your sake, I hope this works out.”

__

So did Ratchet. “I appreciate that. It might mean more if you were willing to hear him say this for himself, but Drift has come a long way from the mech you knew as Deadlock, and not by denying that some of the things he’s done were bad. For whatever it’s worth coming from me, he said he’s sorry.”

__

Ambulon actually paused to think about that for a moment, then sighed. “That doesn’t really help.”

__

Ratchet nodded. He hadn’t expected it would much, if it all. “I’m not going to insist you see Rung about this, though I’ll advise it the same as I did to Drift,” he said, coming around to the question he really needed to ask. “What I do need from you is to know whether or not you’re comfortable treating Drift."

__

“Nothing’s changed,” Ambulon answered. “Now you know why I’m,” he stopped, then restarted. “Now you know why I avoid him, but that doesn’t  _ change _ anything. I can patch him, treat him. I’ll do my job, even if I have to sedate or cuff him to a berth to do it.”

__

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. He said he’s still comfortable with you doing repairs for him, so I’ll leave things alone unless either of you tell me things have changed.”

__

“Alright.”

__

“And again — not mandating therapy, but it might still help to talk to someone. Plus, if you happen to go anywhere near Rung looking like you have something on your mind, he’ll probably find a way to sneak you into a session whether you were planning on it or not.” 

__

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ambulon’s voice was level and uninflected, as good as saying he wasn’t going anywhere near the psychiatrist until he had everything good and buried again. Which was fine; how he chose to handle his personal traumas was just that. Personal. The only thing Ratchet planned to do was the same thing Ambulon was doing with him: keeping an optic out so something could be done if things deteriorated.

__

Satisfied, Ratchet opened the door. “Have a good shift,” he said to Ambulon before turning his attention to Silverstorm, who was standing beside Brawn, ready to go. “Let’s get you back to the brig.”

__

Silverstorm’s response was to stay silent and follow Ratchet out of the medbay, Brawn behind him. 

__

Ratchet saw a few mechs watching from side corridors, but no one approached them. Not yet. He figured he’d be fielding more inquiries once Silverstorm was back in his cell and not in a position to overhear things. There weren’t too many mechs on board who would care about “hurting his feelings”, but there also weren’t many mechs who would want to risk Ratchet’s ire for interrupting them, or punishment details handed down from Red Alert or Ultra Magnus for interfering with a prisoner transfer.

__

When they arrived back at the brig, Fort Max was waiting for them. With no ceremony, he scanned and searched the Decepticon to make sure he hadn’t picked up anything while on his work detail, then put him back in the cell by himself.

__

“Hands.”

__

Silverstorm put his cuffed hands through the hole in the bars, where the warden removed the cuffs, then pulled back quickly. Then he went back to the cell’s bare berth to sulk.

__

Brawn was dismissed as soon as they were back in the brig’s observation room. Scanning the monitors, Ratchet saw that, in contrast to his show of being uninterested in talking to anyone, Silverstorm was already back at the bars of his cage, and the scrolling, transliterated text at the bottom of the screens indicated he and the ‘Cons in the other cells were talking.

__

“Will he be returning for another work shift?” Fort Max asked Ratchet, before he too could leave. 

__

“Unless he says anything to indicate doing so would be dangerous, I plan to have him back, yes. He did good work and didn’t try to cause trouble this time,” Ratchet said, pleased that things had gone relatively well. 

__

“Then I will keep him separate for you.”

__

“Thank you.” Ratchet paused to think. It would be nice to take a shift off chaperoning him, but it wasn’t really demanding work. Bringing Silverstorm back on his next shift wouldn’t be putting any undue strain on him, and the sooner he could convince Rodimus that this could work, the sooner some of the others could start making similar arrangements. “I’ll be back for him when I go back on duty.”

__

“I will be ready to pull him out then.” Fort Max nodded, settling back into his chair. From the direction of his gaze, Ratchet guessed he was interested more in the conversation Silverstorm was having with the mechs in the cell across from him than the mech still yelling loudly to be released. Ratchet was interested in that conversation as well, but he didn’t really have a reason to stick around and watch it play out. He’d get the relevant points later in a summary as the mech’s not-quite-parole officer.

__

Besides, he thought with a smile as he left, he had a date to get to.

__

Now that Silverstorm wasn’t with him, several mechs did stop Ratchet to ask about the ‘Con. A lot of them had already heard that he’d had him in the medbay cleaning parts, and Ratchet explained Silverstorm was working to earn some repairs. Generally mechs ranged from suspicious but accepting of that answer, to outright approving… as long as the prisoners were treated as  _ prisoners. _ Some of those who’d been on the salvage work detail even asked when they were going to get a break while the ‘Cons took a turn. Those, Ratchet honestly answered that he didn’t know; he was only dealing with this one for now. 

__

He felt it was very big of him not to sic them all on Rodimus to pester him about it.

__

Business was starting to pick up at Swerve’s as mechs came off of either duty or recharge, depending on their schedules. He looked around and saw Drift waiting in one booth, absently drawing nonsense patterns on the table in front of him. He had two drinks, so Ratchet didn’t stop by the bar to order before heading over to him.

__

Drift looked  _ tired _ in that moment where Ratchet was close enough to see the details of his expression and posture but far enough away he hadn’t been noticed yet. Then the moment passed and and Drift looked up, laying his hand flat on the table over his invisible marks and offering Ratchet a welcoming smile. “Hey.”

__

“Hey.” Ratchet slid into the seat across from him, wondering if he’d gotten any recharge at all before coming here. Drift’s hand came forward, silently asking for his, and Ratchet took it before going for his drink. “Did I keep you waiting long?”

__

“Naw. I’ve only been here a couple of kliks.” 

__

“Good. I wasn’t sure with all the questions and gossip I had to field on the way here.” Ratchet paused. “You look tired,” he said bluntly. 

__

“No, really, Ratch,” Drift tried for a teasing tone; it didn’t fall entirely flat, “tell me what you really think.”

__

“If you’d rather I didn’t pull my punches, fine: you look horrible. Terrible. Like warmed-over slag. Like—” 

__

“I get it,” Drift chuckled, and Ratchet stopped there. “Thanks.” He lifted Ratchet’s hand to bunt it gently. “At least I can trust you to be honest. I didn’t really get any defrag, and that’s  _ after _ Rung wanted to talk about the situation with Ambulon.”

__

“You did talk to him about it, then? I talked to Ambulon, but I got the distinct impression he’d prefer to deal with it the same way he’s been dealing with it up until now, namely, to ignore it to the best of his ability. He said he doesn’t have any more of a problem treating you now than he did before, but that still carries an unspoken degree of necessity.”

__

“So in combat’s fine, but outside of it, I come to you or First Aid unless I’m actively dying, got it.” Drift grinned; Ratchet would have felt better if the smile had reached his optics.

__

“Pretty much,” he confirmed, then set his drink aside, untouched, to press Drift’s hand between his palms. “All joking aside — are you alright?”

__

He saw Drift consider lying, then his shoulders slumped. “They’re dying,” he said, plaintive, grieving, and more than a little lost.

__

Ratchet’s spark constricted painfully. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Is that something you… sensed, meditating?” He knew without asking that was what Drift had been doing instead of resting. 

__

“Yeah.” He clutched at Ratchet’s hand. “I know you don’t believe me, but… something’s killing them. Supernova, pain, then gone.”

__

Ratchet didn’t believe him, no; not about being able to feel their sparks extinguishing through some sort of mystical meditation over a chunk of metal with unquantifiable properties, anyway. He could, however, easily believe that the members of the Circle were dying (if they weren’t all already dead) and that Drift was tormenting himself over not having been able to prevent it. “What I believe isn’t as important as finding them,” he said, worrying that if they didn’t at least find the bodies, Drift would continue tearing himself up over what had happened to them until he had a complete breakdown. He needed closure, one way or another. “I only wish I knew how to do that.”

__

“I wish it would give me a  _ direction,” _ Drift said with sudden anger that broke through his exhaustion. Then he slumped again, clutching Ratchet’s hands. “All I get is that we’re going the right way. Not physically, but taking the right steps. And when I look for specifics, all my visions are of Shockwave, which even  _ I _ can recognize as a stand in instead of literal.”

__

“Shockwave?” 

__

“He keeps showing up in my dreams,” Drift admitted. Ratchet knew of at least two cases, but not that it had become a truly recurring thing Drift was assigning meaning to. “I thought it was because I was dreaming of Deadlock again, but there’s no reason for me to dream of  _ Shockwave, _ not this consistently. I only encountered him in passing.”

__

“And so you’re… what?” This sort of conversation was  _ not  _ Ratchet’s strong suit. “Trying to figure out what he ‘symbolizes’?”

__

“Yeah.” Drift pulled a deep, shuddering breath in through his vents. “Who or whatever he is, that’s what’s killing them. Torture, experimentation… it was all mixed up before, the Circle, Rodimus… you, but more and more he’s just taking the swords and sorting them, testing them and bending them, looking for the flaws. And then he snuffs out the stars.”

__

“Me? You’ve been having—”  _ hallucinations  _ “—visions with me in them?”

__

“Yes. No.” Drift sighed. “If that part’s true, you’re not there yet.” He shuddered. “I hope that’s just my mind getting the vision mixed up with my fears. That you and Rodimus being there is a mental shorthand for  _ everything I love, _ symbolic. Because if it’s real…” His engine stuttered. “If that part’s real, he’s going to torture you.”

__

“Shockwave’s not going to torture me,” Ratchet said evenly, privately thinking the idea was completely ridiculous. Shockwave might be more than happy to do it — as happy as he ever was to do anything — but the  _ Lost Light _ was out in the middle of nowhere and Shockwave was back on Cybertron. “That definitely sounds like fear running away with your imagination.”

__

“It’s not  _ Shockwave,” _ Drift hissed, but like his earlier teasing, the anger was weak and fleeting. “I don’t know who or what he represents, but it’s not literally him.”

__

“Then it probably isn’t literally me either, so you can at least take that worry off your processor.” Ratchet sighed. It was taking a lot of effort just to not verbally dismiss what Drift was saying. Drift knew he didn’t believe this slag, and he wasn’t trying to convince him; he just needed to talk. The fact that the visions weren’t real didn’t make Drift’s emotions any less so. “I don’t know how to help you make sense of it, but I do know it will be easier if you don’t wear yourself down into exhaustion.”

__

“You’re right.” Drift bunted Ratchet’s hands, then rested his head against them as though taking comfort in their solidness. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll drop by the medbay during First Aid’s shift and get a sedative program. Promise.”

__

“Thank you.” Ratchet stroked his thumb over Drift’s cheek. “I don’t like worrying about you.”

__

“I don’t mean to be worrying.” He offered a small, reassuring smile. “I’m going on duty soon, but after… I’ll get some defrag before I start looking again.”

__

“Good. It’ll help,” Ratchet said. A less muddled, overtaxed processor would be less prone to wild imaginings. “And I can come over and talk about nothing next time our shifts line up, if that still helps too.”

__

“It does. Let me think about it.” Drift nudged Ratchet’s hand with his helm crest. “I absolutely trust you to guard my recharge, but… there’s something I think I want to try, and if I decide to, you couldn’t stay for that.”

__

Some sort of private ritual? Ratchet didn’t have a problem staying out of  _ that. _ “Just let me know either way.”

__

“I will.” With one last nudge, Drift withdrew to finish his energon tea in one single, hungry draft. Without defrag, he’d want all the power he could store in his tank for the coming shift. “I have to go. Duty calls.”

__

“It always does.” 

__

Ratchet only stayed a little while after Drift left; just long enough to finish his drink without really lingering over it. Lacking any other plans for the shift, now would be a good time to start seriously looking into where they might reasonably offload Overlord.

__

It would help to know exactly where they were first, though. He could always just head to the bridge and ask Ultra Magnus. It was unlikely their course was so secret he’d refuse to answer, or he could track down—

__

Almost on cue, Ratchet saw Rodimus sauntering down the corridor, heading towards him. Or, probably more accurately, towards Swerve’s.

__

“Rodimus,” Ratchet hailed him. “Do you have a klik?”

__

The captain stopped whistling and grinned, wide and honest, at Ratchet. “Sure. This an office klik or an on-my-way-to-Swerve’s klik?”

__

“On-your-way-to-Swerve’s, I imagine. Unless a quick review of our course is something you’d rather have behind a door.” 

__

“Good. I hate office kliks.”

__

Of course he did. Ratchet turned back the way he’d come to walk with Rodimus. “We’re still bound for Hedonia, yes?”

__

“Yeah,” Rodimus shrugged. “Hedonia’s the closest Cybertronian friendly port where we can sell off all that scrap, and we’re limping along until we do something with it because  _ Primus _ is that slag slowing us down. I want to retrofit the smaller ship as a long-range shuttle, but until it can dock  _ inside _ the  _ Lost Light _ we’re stuck towing it and its big brother by cables.”

__

“How much longer until we get there?” As long as they were still travelling, doing salvage on the ships wouldn’t cause any additional delays, but once they arrived… “And how long are you planning on staying? Retrofitting the smaller ship sounds like a good idea, but if we’re docked too long, well,” Ratchet sighed. “I’m worried about Drift.”

__

Rodimus stopped; Ratchet ended up walking a couple steps past him before turning back to the captain. With a sigh of his own, Rodimus dropped down to sit against the wall, right there in the hall. “I’m worried about him too,” he said, patting the patch of ground next to him in an invitation for Ratchet to join him. “I can see he’s tearing himself apart, but we have to stay at Hedonia at least a cycle or two. We need to sell that scrap, and everyone needs a chance to get off this ship for a bit.”

__

“No argument there.” Shoreleave did wonders for everyone’s mental health, and no matter how well they’d been getting along recently, Ratchet didn’t want to think what the crew would be like if they missed such a good chance. He hesitated a moment, looking at the floor skeptically, but then went ahead and sat down beside the captain. “Drift was telling me about his ‘visions’. Said he still didn’t know where we should be going, but that we’re doing the right things so far. Sort of.” It wouldn’t have made any more sense even if Ratchet had believed any of it. “He might be okay a couple of cycles, looking around to see if anyone there knows anything, but if he suddenly decides we need to head off in a certain direction, he’s not going to be put off.”

__

“Then we’ll follow his visions for a time,” Rodimus said easily, like it cost him nothing to hare off on his friend’s search on a hallucination or dream. “We don’t have any other leads to the Circle of Light, and the Knights of Cybertron have waited millions and millions of vorns; they can wait for Drift.”

__

Despite his worry, Ratchet found himself smiling slightly. “You’re a good friend to him.” 

__

“Eh.” Rodimus examined the flawless paint on his arm for any sort of dings or chips in the high-gloss finish, an excuse not to look at Ratchet. “I try. I’d be making sure he slept too, if our shifts had any overlap.”

__

“I’ve been doing what I can whenever my shifts line up with his, but he hasn’t been able to cycle down for more than a couple of joors at a time even then. And I  _ know  _ he recharges even worse when he’s alone.”

__

“Maybe I should talk to Mags about putting us on a three-shift system like the medbay so you can be there more.” Rodimus folded his arms over his knees and rested his head on them. “But we’d still be on duty two shifts out of three, and that wouldn’t leave us time for anything in our off shift  _ but _ recharge.”

__

“Definitely don’t talk to Ultra Magnus about that,” Ratchet said quickly. “He’ll think it’s a good way to increase efficiency,” when in the long run it would be anything but. Mechs needed time off for things besides recharge. “He’s at least promised me he’ll get a sedative from First Aid on his next shift, but that’s only a short-term solution.”

__

“It may be enough of a solution for us to catch a lucky break and find the Circle,” Rodimus said optimistically. “That’d solve everything. If we don’t… How much has he told you about his time with the Circle of Light?”

__

“Not all of it. Some,” Ratchet said, trying to recall what bits and pieces Drift had shared with him. “I think I’ve heard more of the negatives than the positives, but it’s obvious he cares deeply about them.”

__

“He does. I shouldn’t tell you much if he hasn’t told you himself but,” Rodimus made a vague gesture in the air, “apparently they came out of hiding because of him.”

__

“Oh.” That would certainly add to the burden of responsibility Drift felt for something bad happening to them. “No wonder he thinks this is his fault, even if it really isn’t.”

__

“Yeah.” The captain paused, examining his finish again. “I’m glad he has you. I wasn’t at first, because I’m an idiot, and I didn’t like sharing, but he’s not a thing I own and you’ve been good for him.”

__

Ratchet blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Nice to know we have your approval?”

__

“You don’t need it, but you have it.” Rodimus offered a crooked grin and stretched. “But enough touchy-feely stuff. I think it’s  _ really _ time for that drink now.”

__

“Or two, or three,” Ratchet smiled back, slowly getting to his feet. “If Drift doesn’t hit on a direction, did you have a plan for which way to head after Hedonia?”

__

“Not yet.” Rodimus hopped to his feet, like the spry young mech he really wasn’t, and stretched again; Ratchet heard several of his spinal struts pop as they settled. “Oo. That felt good. I’ve got a Matrix map to consult as far as the Knights are concerned, but we’re not giving up on the Circle yet so I haven’t looked too hard.”

__

“Makes sense.” Also made it harder to narrow down their options for dealing with Overlord a little bit, but if he could find something viable that wasn’t  _ too  _ far out of their way, Rodimus would probably consider it a worthy detour without too much convincing. “Enjoy that drink.”

__

“I will.” Another cocky grin and Rodimus continued sauntering down the corridor, like he’d never been interrupted.

__

Determined to make some progress, Ratchet resumed his journey back to his quarters. Space was big, but now he had a rough idea of where to start.

__

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__

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__


	17. Chapter 17

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As he’d suspected he might, about a joor before Ratchet was next scheduled to pick up Silverstorm from the brig, Fort Max sent a low-priority ping containing a summary of what he’d talked about with the other ‘Cons. Unsurprisingly, it was Silverstorm relaying the details of his work detail: what kind of work he’d been doing, the conditions, Brawn’s presence as a guard… and how Ratchet was as an overseer. His expectations, his temperament, how he’d treated Silverstorm and how he’d treated each patient that Silverstorm had seen come through. It wasn’t surprising, but it still made Ratchet’s plating itch to be dissected that way.

It didn’t stop him from going and picking up Silverstorm and plunking him right back down on the medberth-turned-cleaning-station with a fresh bucket of cleanser and going about his shift.

He had one pass-on from First Aid (Sprocket waiting for a weld to finish setting) and a couple of scheduled maintenance appointments at the beginning of the shift, but once those patients were out of the way, he hit a bit of a lull. Ratchet went over to Silverstorm’s box of clean parts to check his work.

Silverstorm kept his head down until Ratchet made an approving sound. All the parts — useful and pure scrap alike — were sparkling clean.

“So if you’re still breaking down the ships, why am I here?” the Decepticon asked, not looking up. Brawn shifted, but Ratchet waved him to be quiet. If Silverstorm wanted to talk, they’d talk.

“Why are you here in the medbay doing cleanup instead of over on the ships doing salvage, you mean?” Ratchet asked, starting to separate out the more immediately useful parts to occupy his hands. “Because I’m here, not over there.”

Ratchet was patient. He could feel the mech’s caution and suspicion — a prisoner’s learned habit not to engage with his captors beyond what was necessary — and his curiosity, and waited for curiosity to win out. “So why’re you our minder?”

“Because I volunteered.” He’d practically had to beg to be allowed to volunteer, but Silverstorm didn’t need to know that. “I’m in a good position to see if having any of you do some work would, well, _work.”_

Silverstorm thought about that. “Wasn’t expecting to be given a choice,” he muttered a little sullenly.

“I can understand where that impression might have come from,” Ratchet said evenly, “but one, it would be a violation of the Autobot Code to force you all to do hard labor for us, and two, we don’t actually need to. Sure, there’s work to be done — plenty of it! — but it’s _more_ work to manage an uncooperative team than it is to just do the work ourselves.”

“Oh.” Silverstorm waited for Ratchet’s hands to be out of the way before putting the part he’d been working on in the clean bin. “Suppose that makes sense.”

“We thought so.” There had been times in the past, especially as the number of mechs and resources on both sides dwindled, when POWs had been put to work, only earning nominal concessions in the process, but those camps had been designed to deal with an unruly, unwilling workforce. The _Lost Light_ just wasn’t, even without Rodimus’ trust issues. Ratchet looked directly at Silverstorm, who was still avoiding his optics. “It’s a voluntary program on both sides. We’re doing a limited trial run, you and me, but there might be room to expand it in the future if there are enough interested parties.”

“You gonna be the overseer for them, too?”

It sounded like Silverstorm might be fishing for information on behalf of the other ‘Cons, not just asking because he was curious. Ratchet considered that a good thing, a chance to let them know what options were on the table. “Some of them, yes, but I’ve only got so much time available. Ultra Magnus is considering overseeing work as well, over on the ships.”

“And once my repairs are done, you think you’re gonna be open to some other kind of trade?” Silverstorm said cautiously.

Definitely fishing for the others, since it was still too early for him to be thinking about extending this arrangement for himself. “Open to discussion, yes. Able to promise anything right now, no,” Ratchet said honestly. Any other agreements would require negotiating between whichever ‘Con wanted to try and make a deal and him, and between him and Rodimus to get approval for whatever the first negotiation resulted in. “We don’t exactly have a lot of brig space, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything that could be done to improve conditions.”

“Can I have another bucket of cleanser?”

Apparently they were done with this discussion. “Sure.” At least he’d proactively asked for the cleanser this time. Small victories.

Silverstorm didn’t try to engage in conversation again after that. Ratchet continued to keep an optic on his progress, but otherwise didn’t push him. He was content to use the time to work on fabricating some of the more complex components they always seemed to run out of.

No major injuries came in to interrupt him, so Ratchet managed to get a tidy pile of them made. Drift was on the bridge, which meant Rodimus was on troubleshooting duty and Ultra Magnus was (supposed to be) resting, which explained why there weren’t any salvage accidents or lob ball injuries this shift.

Ratchet was cleaning up his workbench when Ambulon arrived. “I kept things nice and simple in here for you,” Ratchet told him, putting away the last of his tools. “A couple of the off-liners are going to need line flushes soon, if you want to take that on.” Ratchet hadn’t because it wasn’t urgent, and would have taken him away from Silverstorm for too long.

“Sure, boss.” At least Ambulon seemed to be getting back to normal. Ratchet saw his optics flick down to check on the patch of armor over Drift’s bite, but he didn’t run a scan. “I can do that. Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s it.” Brawn was already getting Silverstorm ready to go, and Ratchet joined them. “Oh, wait, I meant to ask Rodimus but I forgot. When is the first official lob ball match?” With Ambulon on one of the teams, and First Aid far too invested to be of any use in the medbay instead of watching the game, Ratchet would need to adjust their schedules around it so he would be the one on shift.

“Not sure. The ref’s being difficult,” Ambulon explained so flatly it took Ratchet a moment to realize he thought it was funny. “Which lets us get some practice in, at least. First game is going to be Team Mustache vs the Happy Weasels, so as soon as the date’s announced, there’ll be banners everywhere, I’m sure.”

So Ambulon would be playing then, and so would Whirl. Fantastic. “Let me know when it’s pinned down, and I’ll shuffle things accordingly.”

“I will.”

“Team Mustache and the Happy Weasels?” Silverstorm asked, incredulous but quiet enough Ratchet could pretend he didn’t hear if he wanted, as he fell in behind the medic.

“I had nothing to do with the names,” Ratchet said anyway.

The Decepticon didn’t say anything else until Ratchet and Fort Max were once again watching him report to the prisoners in the cell across from him.

“He was asking questions earlier about the possibility of other trades,” Ratchet said, this time not concerned with leaving right away. He still had some time to kill before Drift finished his shift.

Fortress Maximus nodded, optics on the scrolling conversation. “That one,” he pointed to one of the inmates, a blue mech with features indicating he was a beastformer of some sort; if Ratchet had matched the medical records taken from the Decepticon ship to the right mechs, his name was Blueray, “has some sort of complaint with his alt mode he wants looked at. I’m not sure what that one,” he pointed to another, a dark purple mech, who also seemed very interested in Silverstorm’s information, “wants, but I’m not sure I’d risk taking him out yet. He has mods most often seen on Spec Ops mechs. Your previous patient,” Ragefire, “just wants me to spread them out more evenly in the cells, so he can recharge more easily.”

“Well, I’m willing to supervise others in the same capacity I’m doing now, once I’m done with Silverstorm. Hopefully, Ultra Magnus will decide it’s worth the trouble to supervise a few as well, and Rodimus will okay it.” The layout of the prisoners really was crowded… “Is there even a way to spread them out more evenly?”

“If you want to fix fight damage every cycle for as long as they’re here. Silverstorm is alone because that’s the safest thing as long as he’s the only one leaving the cells. And that group,” Fort Max gestured to the monitors focused on the two less crowded cells, which contained Blip, SnapTrap and a few others, “isn’t separated out because I like them.”

“Troublemakers, huh?” There were always a few in every bunch. “I know Red Alert will have a conniption over me even asking this, but is securing other quarters a possibility for the more cooperative inmates?”

“From my perspective as prison warden,” Fort Max said slowly, “I would say I’d have to examine any available quarters before making suggestions on how to retrofit them into more comfortable cells, but it’s possible.”

Ratchet nodded. “I don’t want to be getting ahead of ourselves, but maybe it’s worth looking into. Not all of them need repairs, and even those who do might be willing to trade work for other things.”

“Personal belongings, if they had any, are usually good leverage,” was Fort Max’s opinion on that, and Ratchet had to agree that was probably a good place to start.

“As long as they’re safe to return,” Ratchet said, knowing Fort Max hadn’t meant things like guns. “If any of them came in with an inventory like Brainstorm usually carries though, it would probably be a good idea to skip that option.”

“Of course. And I currently have the contents of their frames and subspace pockets here.” Fort Max nodded to a wall of locked cubbies. “There are a few suitable trinkets.” Instead of opening the lockers, the huge mech pulled up some sort of inventory list, selected a name, then selected an item. That brought up a rotating, three dimensional picture of some sort of cast metal trinket on a chain, perhaps so it could be worn. “I am fairly certain this is a religious icon.”

Ratchet was suddenly struck with the image of Drift, hanging on to his mentor’s chakra crystals by keeping them in his subspace for nearly four million vorns.

“I have already warned Ultra Magnus to keep an optic out for other items in any personal quarters on the ships,” Fortress Maximus went on, before Ratchet could shake the image enough to respond. “Holograms of batch or unit members, collections of datapads containing entertainment material, other trinkets like this one, interfacing aids. If you don’t want to chance returning these to the prisoners, I’m sure the crew would be more than happy to lay claim to them, but as you are their parole officer, that decision is yours.”

His, and the other bridge officers’ with a lot of unavoidable input from Red Alert, anyway.

“I don’t see a reason not to give them the chance to earn those belongings back,” Ratchet said, simultaneously thinking about what the Autobot Code had to say regarding POWs and what parts of the Code weren’t applicable in the current situation. “They’re our prisoners, but we aren’t at war anymore. As bad as what happened on Temptoria was,” and Ratchet wasn’t denying it had been pretty awful, “we should be looking at it as an isolated incident, unless _they_ want to drag older grievances into this.”

Fort Max looked away from Ratchet, closing the inventory list and studiously returning his optics to the monitors. “I can’t be involved in that. I can and will keep them for as long as they’re on this ship, but I can’t be trusted to weigh in on their ultimate fate,” he said, after a moment, with a bleak sort of honesty.

“I won’t ask you to,” Ratchet promised. It was enough to ask him to manage them fairly, given his own past grievances with the Decepticons. To his credit, he was doing an admirable job of it, and was aware of his own limitations. “I should ask the rest of the command staff what their long-term plans for them are. Ideally we’d find an outpost to offload them at and let them deal with them, but…”

“We don’t know when that would be,” Fortress Maximus finished.

“There aren’t any Autobot outposts in this quadrant.” Having recently spent a good chunk of time checking out what was in the area with a mind to offloading a different prisoner, Ratchet could say that with certainty. “There are some nearby-ish places with a Cybertronian presence, but that doesn’t guarantee any of them are equipped to deal with a group like this.” Hedonia, for instance, would only work as a place to leave them as free citizens, and while they could technically hold trials on the ship, there wasn’t enough time to give everyone a hearing before they docked there — and not all of those hearings were likely to end that favorably for the ‘Cons.

“I can make a list of places I remember that have the right facilities for this group, but none of them are nearby. Additionally, I don’t know which, if any, survived the time I was in my coma.”

“Please do — it will still give us potential options to discuss, even if nothing pans out.”

“I will then.” On the monitors, Silverstorm was still reporting his experience to those ‘Cons showing any sort of interest (and probably a few who were only pretending disinterest). Fort Max’s optics narrowed at something Ratchet didn’t have the experience to spot. “It’s far from necessary, but Ultra Magnus will have less trouble managing a work crew if he does so before they acclimatize to you being their only overseer,” he commented.

“I’ll mention it to him.” Maybe it would inspire Ultra Magnus to push Rodimus a bit more to approve it. “I can’t be their only overseer if they all want to start working. Even if just a few of them do! And I don’t need them picking favorites between us, either.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ratchet started to compose a memo to Ultra Magnus, then changed his mind and just sent a ping requesting a brief meeting. There was still a bit of time before the shift change, but Ultra Magnus was probably already working, even if he was supposed to be off the clock. That suspicion was confirmed when the responding ping indicating Ultra Magnus could accept an appointment immediately came back only nanokliks later.

“Send me that list whenever you get it done,” Ratchet said as he turned to leave. “I’m going to go talk to Ultra Magnus.”

“Yes, sir,” Fort Max said, adding, “Have a good recharge,” when Ratchet was at the door.

“Thanks,” Ratchet said and, with a final parting wave, set off down the hall.

He arrived at Ultra Magnus’ office to find the mech, as expected, hunched over an array of datapads. “You’re not due on for another breem, you know,” Ratchet commented.

“This is not my scheduled duty,” the huge mech said, a little stiffly. “But it is unlikely to be done in any satisfactory manner if either Rodimus or,” Ultra Magnus’ expression twisted a little, “Drift does it.”

“What is ‘this’?” Ratchet asked, glancing down at the desk. It looked like a lot of lists and figures.

“The ship’s budget.”

That… probably was best left in Ultra Magnus’ hands, if Ratchet was being honest. “Can I distract you from it for just a klik? I was talking with Fort Max about the prisoners, and a couple of things came up.”

Ultra Magnus narrowed his optics, dimming them into hostile slits. “Problems?”

“Not yet, but our conversation highlighted some places where problems might arise. I thought it might be better to address them now, before that happens.”

“Of course.” Blue optics brightened back up to Ultra Magnus’ usual, more neutral unhappy expression. “Tell me.”

“First, things are going well with Silverstorm so far. It’s looking like some of the other prisoners might be interested in making deals to work as well, but Fort Max thinks it would be better if they don’t get used to the idea of me being the only overseer and the medbay being the only available venue,” Ratchet explained. “Obviously, changing that would require an agreement between you and the captain. It’s not something that needs to be sorted out within the next few cycles, but preferably within the next decacycle.”

Ultra Magnus nodded his head in acknowledgement. “I will address it during our next scheduled meeting. Thank you, Ratchet.”

“The other thing you might bring up,” Ratchet said, capitalizing on the opening, “is what we’re going to do with them in the long run. Keeping them onboard as prisoners indefinitely isn’t what the ship is built for.”

“It is not,” he agreed. He deliberately picked up a datapad and set it neatly aside before folding his hands in front of himself. “We will have to make contact with an outpost capable of holding them.”

“Fort Max is going to send me a list of the places he knows of that would be suitable. I’ll make sure you’re copied if he doesn’t include you,” which he probably would. “We’re a long ways from anywhere, though. If transferring them isn’t an option, we’ll have to look into the alternatives.”

“According to the Autobot Code, we must carry them until they can be transferred to a more permanent facility, until they are tried for their crimes and their fates determined, or until we cannot provide for them and the captain decides to have them executed.” For Ultra Magnus, it was as simple as that.

“My vote’s for the second option over the third,” Ratchet said, though of course it wasn’t up to him in the end. “Is it even fair to leave execution on the table, now that we’re at peace?”

Ultra Magnus’ frown deepened slightly. He even seemed to consider that for a klik. “That is the captain’s decision,” he finally said. “The Autobot Code is the law on this ship. However, for the sake of the rules and oaths you operate under, I will assure you that our capacity to keep seventeen Decepticons fed and housed securely is not in question. We have no justification for a summary execution.”

The unexpected assurance made Ratchet feel better. “Glad to hear it,” he said, the weight of worry lifting from his shoulders a fraction. Ratchet had never served on a ship or base where the commanding officer had engaged in summary executions, but he knew it had happened — both motivated by hate and justified by everyone’s strained resources.

“Arranging trials for them all will be difficult without access to the Autobots’ information network to check for crimes not related to those committed on Temptoria,” Ultra Magnus went on. “I have files on some of them, but only those whose actions would have at one point warranted the attention of the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.”

“Finding somewhere we could access that network might turn out to be easier than finding a suitable holding facility though,” Ratchet said. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was a possibility.

Ultra Magnus tapped his fingers on his desk twice. “It is possible Hedonia,” the planet’s name was uttered with distinct distaste, “is in communication with Cybertron,” he allowed. “I will speak to the captain about this.”

Ratchet nodded; it was enough for now. “In that case I’ll take myself out of your way,” he said. “Thank you.”

Ultra Magnus simply nodded in acknowledgement. “Dismissed,” he said formally, already going back to his datapads. He would be officially going on duty in just a few nanokliks now, but since it was his troubleshooting shift, he’d probably just keep working on the budget until it was time to take a crew over to the two salvaged ships.

Stepping back out into the corridor, Ratchet received a low-priority ping from Drift exactly as he would have ended his shift on the bridge.

 _“I was just about to call you,”_ Ratchet sent back, pausing for a moment. He didn’t know which way he should go. _“Did you want me to come by?”_

 _“Yes, please. Though you have a few kliks, if you’re busy.”_ Drift’s answer was borderline shy and incorporated an apology for imposing. _“I need to pick something up from Perceptor before recharge.”_

 _“I’d just wrapped something up.”_ Ratchet looked over at the door to Drift’s habsuite just across the hall. _“Alright if I get there first and just wait for you?”_

_“That’s fine. That’s why you have a visitor’s code.”_

_“It’s still polite to ask.”_ Ratchet smiled at the empty hallway. _“See you when you get there,”_ he said, then went over and let himself in.

It was a little odd being in here without Drift. He had a visitor’s code, yes, but he’d never taken advantage of it before. He turned the lights up, revealing everything in all its quiet glory. Though… Huh. He hadn’t thought of it before, but coming directly from Ultra Magnus’ quarters, it was hard to miss that Drift was the only one of the three bridge officers who didn’t keep a desk in his habsuite. Interesting.

He went ahead and settled on the berth, taking a moment to stretch and relax. He could have gotten a datapad out to read, but instead he decided to just lay there for a bit, staring up at the ceiling while he tried to get his processor off all the things he couldn’t do anything about right now. He’d done everything about Overlord, and about the other Decepticon prisoners, that was currently possible. Ultra Magnus was talking to Rodimus about the latter, and Ratchet had come up with a few places to potentially permanently stash the former to review with the others later.

They weren’t going to talk about Overlord tonight at all, though. That was an upsetting subject he knew he and Drift very much disagreed on. There was no reason, absolutely none, to court an argument before they had to _officially_ deal with it. They could tacitly agree to mutually ignore something all they wanted in the meantime.

So Ratchet didn’t think any more about Overlord. Instead he concentrated on the soft, blurry scent of old incense and ash he’d come to find so comforting.

By the time Drift opened the door, Ratchet was just thinking he could maybe try meditation once, as long as he wasn’t asked to concentrate on crystals or some other similar slag.

“Hi,” Drift said with a tired smile. He shed his swords, setting all three of them carefully aside, as the door closed behind him. Only one remained in reach of the berth, which Drift settled down on and leaned over to bump their helm crests together affectionately. “Boosh.”

“You’re cute,” Ratchet said, wrapping an arm around Drift’s frame to hold him in place. “You also still look exhausted.”

“I am. I have something for you, though.”

“You do?” Ratchet pulled back just enough that he could see Drift’s face more easily. “What is it?”

“You need to let me sit up.”

“Okay.” Ratchet pulled back further, giving Drift room to move. “Better?”

“For a given definition of the word,” Drift answered with a smile. “Since I wasn’t complaining about being held, but…” He pulled a plain, metal box from his subspace. “Ta-da.”

“I am overcome with joy and enthusiasm,” Ratchet deadpanned, then took the box to examine it. Simple, with a straightforward latch, it wasn’t locked. “Should I open it now?”

“Yeah. I want to know if Perceptor needs to make any adjustments.” Drift’s hands withdrew and he very deliberately set them on his knees, as though he was stopping himself from fidgeting.

“This is what you were picking up?” Curiosity even more piqued, Ratchet opened the box.

A pair of heavily modified stasis cuffs laid inside, cushioned on a clean rag. Actually, it looked like the stasis mechanisms had been removed entirely, and replaced with a different lock. They’d been padded too, with what Ratchet thought might be foam or rubber, then painted in a soft, burnished orange.

Ratchet felt his engine hitch slightly, looking at them. “Are these for what I think they’re for?” he asked.

“Yes,” Drift said simply. “I thought Perceptor would know what I needed better than I would, so I asked him last cycle. He modified those for our needs. I didn’t want the stasis function at all; we don’t need it. And the lock can be opened by your use of your safeword. I wasn’t going to put you in something you couldn’t escape at all.”

Every bit as careful and thorough as he’d been with the biting… “I knew I could trust you with this,” Ratchet said, smiling. He set the box down and picked the cuffs up, testing how they opened before fitting one around his wrist to check the fit: snug, restrictive, but not painfully so. Even when he pulled against it, twisting his hand this way and that in an attempt to “escape”, the padding kept the edges from cutting into his plating. “Looks like Perceptor did a good job.”

“No adjustments needed?” Drift drew an electronic key out of the box, but didn’t immediately use it. “Mind checking that it’ll open on your command?”

“Chrome,” Ratchet said, and both the cuff on his wrist and the other clicked opened. “Looks like it does.”

“Good.” Drift offered Ratchet a smile. “I can’t do it with you this cycle, but consider this a promise.”

“I wouldn’t have let you right now if you’d offered,” Ratchet said, setting the cuffs back in their box. “You need to rest more than I need to play.”

“Do you want to keep them, or do you want me to?”

“I’ll hang onto them.” They were a gift, after all. And, Ratchet thought as he tucked the box away, it would be easier for him to explain having them on the off-chance anyone found out about them. “Also, I still want you. Get back here.”

With a laugh, Drift obeyed. He settled onto the berth, letting Ratchet arrange them comfortably. As tempting as it was to have Drift sprawling out on top of him, Ratchet tucked the speedster in next to him, where he was easy to hold. Almost immediately, his engine cycled down to a soft idle, but he didn’t fall into recharge yet.

“Don’t forget to plug in,” Ratchet reminded him, then started describing random places he’d been in his life as a quiet, meaningless backdrop.

With a sigh, Drift plugged one of his cords into the berth’s power supply, then inserted a dataslug Ratchet recognized as one of the medbay’s into the port at the back of his neck. “Thank you for standing watch,” he murmured as the sedative took effect. His optics flickered off and his frame relaxed against Ratchet’s.

“You’re welcome,” Ratchet said, then went back to his description of one of the lecture halls he’d spent so much time in back on Cybertron.

When he finished verbally recreating the picture in his mind of the space he moved on, switching to the watchtower of an outpost from somewhere in the middle of the war. From there he described an alien mountain range, and a forest on Earth. He didn’t tell stories about any of them; telling stories would bring up emotions that would manifest in his field, and he wanted to maintain as calm and neutral a presence as possible.

Whether it was the stream of sound or the sedative (or both), Drift recharged soundly, barely even twitching. Ratchet was glad to see it, because he needed it. Badly. Maybe he should see if there was a way to change the medbay schedule so he’d be able to do this more often while he was shuffling it for sportsball. It was doable. Probably. With Rodimus captaining one of the teams and Ultra Magnus roped into being the referee (whenever he caved to the inevitable), then most of the games would take place while Drift was on the bridge. It wouldn’t fix the problem, but until they found the Circle, it was the best he could do.

Eventually Ratchet quieted. He waited to see if the lack of his voice would disturb the sleeping speedster, and when it didn’t, he plugged himself into the berth and initiated his own recharge, arms still wrapped protectively around Drift.

.

.

.

Ambulon had flushed the off-liners’ lines out, ensuring their frames would remain functional, and someone had dropped off another four crates of salvage with First Aid with the request to “get these cleaned up and sort them by how useful they are, k? Thx”. Ratchet would have strangled someone (it wouldn’t be fatal or anything for Cybertronians!) for bringing so much in at once except that it meant he would have plenty for Blueray — who had finally pulled together the courage to ask for the chance to negotiate a trade when he’d had gone down to retrieve Silverstorm — to do if Ultra Magnus couldn’t get Rodimus to let up and get some Decepticon work teams together.

As it was, Ratchet made sure Silverstorm didn’t think he was supposed to get through all of it in one shift and then shoved the extra crates as out of the way as possible.

It was another quiet shift of fabricating components, for the most part. Now that they were three shifts into the five they’d agreed were a fair trade for the repairs Silverstorm needed, Ratchet started pulling together all the pieces he would need for that job — specifically, all the fuses and regulators that would have to go in along with the new wiring.

Given how quiet it was, Ratchet was a little disappointed Drift didn’t drop by to talk or hang out. He would have toned down their relationship for their Decepticon audience, since he didn’t know trading protection with “Deadlock” would look from a Decepticon perspective. Maybe he would think it interfered with Ratchet’s ability to negotiate with the prisoners, or something silly like that. Drift had warned him that he was probably going to spend much of his shift meditating, trying to figure out what was under all the symbols in his “visions” in the hopes of being what they should be _doing_ to find the Circle of Light, so it wasn’t like he wasn’t forewarned, but still. It would have been nice to see him, since it did get a little boring after a while with no one to talk to. Brawn didn’t count; he was working too, and wouldn’t appreciate the distraction. Even if watching Silverstorm sulk suspiciously while he cleaned had to be the most boring guard duty ever.

Driven to inspiration out of desperation, Ratchet pulled out _The Spear of Dreams_ and ran the text through an audio converter and started playing the resulting file over his comm suite. It wasn’t as nice as a proper recording would have been, but it was better than nothing, and easy enough to pause or rewind when he needed to focus more closely on something else for a few kliks.

His mood both improved and soured as he neared the end of the shift. He wouldn’t be bored anymore, true, but he wasn’t looking forward to hearing about whatever meditations Drift had obviously decided to attempt when he went to check on him. It was hard to be supportive when all he could see was how the continual fruitless search for clearer “visions” left him hurting and no closer to any kind of resolution.

He was temporarily distracted when Ambulon walked in with a large roll of flimsies in his arms. The other medic took a look at Ratchet’s fabrication project and nodded. “I’ll get these stashed in the office, then I can take that over for you, boss.”

“I won’t clear it all up then,” Ratchet said gratefully. “What are those?”

“Rewind made player posters for Team Mustache since we’re the only ones who have finalized our team symbol,” Ambulon answered, unrolling the corner so Ratchet could see the dramatic mustache stamped in the corner; it was exactly the same as the one Rodimus had been sporting after Drift’s prank. “Rodimus wants me to sign them.”

“Autographed posters…” Ratchet shook his head. At least those were harmless, and proof that everyone was having a good time with the new fad. “I’m guessing First Aid already put his name down for one when they’re ready?”

Ambulon shook his head. “I’m hoping to surprise him with one.”

“Ah. Then I won’t say anything about them,” Ratchet promised.

“Thanks.”

Ratchet got up, leaving the fabrication implements where they were for Ambulon and just took his datapad from the corner of the workbench. After half-listening to the same chapter twice, he could probably move on to the next one after meeting with Drift… or, he rethought as a ping from Ultra Magnus appeared on his HUD, maybe he would go back to the brig to talk to Blueray now that he had permission.

Returning Silverstorm to his cell went without a hitch, and Ratchet let Fort Max know he’d be back soon before heading to Drift’s quarters. Drift had said to just come by after his shift, and Ratchet hoped that meant he was planning to get in a quick nap after whatever he’d put himself through.

When he arrived at the door he knocked rather than using his code to open it. “Drift? You in there?”

It took a klik for Drift answer. “…Yeah.”

“How are you?” Ratchet asked, opening the door when he heard the locks disengage. Tired was a given, but hadn’t been able to tell from the single word how the meditation had left Drift feeling emotionally. Distressed? Despairing? Both?

The scent of incense wafted out, stronger than normal — Drift had lit a new stick recently — along with something sharper, electric, like ozone. Drift himself was curled up on the berth, clutching one of his swords. “Close the door, please,” he rasped, and when Ratchet stepped forward to let the door close, plunging them both into darkness, he heard the locks reengage behind him. “Lights, ten percent,” Drift said, and Ratchet saw him setting the sword aside as they came up.

“I take it you’re not feeling very well then,” Ratchet said quietly. This was worse than he’d expected; he looked like he was in physical pain this time. He walked closer, carefully weighing what he felt in Drift’s field. It was ragged and fluctuating around the edges, nothing like his usual control, and he was putting out more heat than normal as well. “What’s going on?” he asked, queueing up a scan.

“Private,” Drift said, wriggling to make room for Ratchet on the berth. “I’ll be recovered in time to go on duty.”

“You don’t have a lot of time between then and now,” Ratchet pointed out. The scan only confirmed what his sensors had already told him: Drift was overheating and experiencing minor electrical fluctuations. “I’ve never seen any of your meditations have side effects like this.”

With a flicker of rueful resignation, Drift held out a dataslug to Ratchet. “Don’t worry. It’s spent. Hold me?”

Suspicions rising, Ratchet sat down beside Drift and laid a hand on his shoulder while he examined the slug. With a slight dissatisfied noise, Drift curled up around Ratchet while he used a datapad to take a look at the code on the slug, rather than using his own systems.

It took a klik for him to recognize what he was looking at, but when he did… It _was_ spent, but at one point Ratchet had been as familiar with the aftereffects of boosters as he currently was with gunshot wounds.

Drift wasn’t sick. Drift was coming down from a high.

“What were you thinking?!” Ratchet kept his voice quiet, but _shock/worry/disapproval_ flashed through his field as he ripped the spent slug from the datapad. “I know you feel awful about what happened, but this— you _know_ these are dangerous!”

“I do know. That’s why I make single-use copies instead of plugging my master copy into my port.”

“You have _more_ of these?” Or the ability to make more, which amounted to the same thing. Drift was still wiggling, fitting his frame around Ratchet’s, discontentedly searching for comfort while Ratchet sat frozen, struggling to sort through his conflicting impulses. On the one hand, he wanted to yell at Drift, to demand to know how he could be so stupid, while on the other, he wanted to wrap him in his arms and protect him from everything that had driven him to do this. “You should get rid of that master so you’re not tempted to use it again.”

“No.”

“And why not? Boosters are contraband for a reason!”

“It’s not _contraband,”_ Drift huffed, offense skittering briefly through his EM field. He sagged where he was, curled up around Ratchet, but still dissatisfied with the lack of cuddling. “My _legal_ possession of a _single_ master copy for my own use is in my file.”

“It is _not_ in— ah. You mean your service file, not your medical one,” Ratchet realized. He only had access to the latter, whereas the former was where exceptions were made for— “You really were meditating, weren’t you? Using the boosters for one of those rituals Gleam wrote about.”

“Yeah. The solstices, the equinoxes, renewed lunar cycle, and no more than three times a vorn to assist in vision quests. Self imposed limit,” he added before Ratchet could ask. “By the time a mech becomes a sybil and can undertake a quest without supervision he is expected to know his own limits, and _I do._ Are you done yelling at me?”

He didn’t think he’d done that much yelling as it was. Certainly not compared to what he’d thought of doing! Ratchet sighed. Yelling wouldn’t do any good, but while he wasn’t going to waste time on that, he wasn’t done disapproving. Or worrying. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, with your history?”

“I know more about my _history_ than you do,” Drift hissed back, curling up defensively. The movement initially brought him closer to Ratchet, and with a whine he pushed himself away before curling up facing the other way.

That hurt, but Ratchet couldn’t exactly refute him when it was the truth. “If you’ve thought about it and made a conscious decision, that’s your choice,” he forced himself to say. “I’m not in a position to tell you to stop.” With a religious exemption, he couldn’t intervene as a medic unless Drift was endangering himself, and while Ratchet didn’t think using boosters for vision quests was healthy under any circumstances, the side effects of coming down from the occasional high were only unpleasant, not life threatening. And as his lover… “I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do. I’ll just… have to figure out a way to make peace with it.” Even if that meant essentially ignoring it as best he could, assuming Drift didn’t expect his blessing or anything, and kept it under control. “So yes, I’m done yelling at you.”

“Does that mean you’ll hold me now? Or just sit there being disapproving?” he added waspishly.

Angry cuddles were awkward, but Ratchet didn’t want to make things worse. “I’ll hold you,” he said, reaching out for Drift’s hunched shoulder. He could still offer that physical comfort while he disapproved, and take comfort himself in the fact that Drift _hadn’t_ accidentally overdosed.

Drift curled up in Ratchet’s arms, his own anger making his frame stiff. It was awkward. But then he took in a deep vent of air, held it, and relaxed as he let it out.

Ratchet thought about asking how the vision quest had gone as the silence drew out between them, but then decided against it. He didn’t trust himself not to sound judgmental, and there was enough of that lingering at the edges of the atmosphere already. Rather than risk saying the wrong thing, he said nothing.

It wasn’t long before Drift pulled away. “I’m on shift in a klik,” he said softly.

“I should let you go, then.” Ratchet was glad he had something work-related to get to as well, despite it being his off-shift. He could use a good distraction right about now. He stood to make room, not hesitating to hold a hand out to Drift.

Drift took it, letting Ratchet pull him up. He didn’t offer a smile, but his field was calm again. Silently he replaced all three swords, securing them to his frame, then turned back to Ratchet. “I cannot let you observe the ceremonies themselves, but would it help if I showed you the file history on my master copy?”

He shouldn’t need to see something like that, shouldn’t be asking Drift to prove anything, but, “Yes,” he admitted. “It would.”

“Legs up,” Drift warned before he bent down to reach beneath the berth and haul his footlocker out from under it. He unlocked it, and pulled out a box. He entered a code on _that_ box, then turned it so Ratchet could see the lock. “I opened this earlier this cycle, so you need to confirm it with your medical code or it won’t open again so soon.”

Surprised and confused, Ratchet nonetheless entered his code. Inside was a single dataslug. Drift plucked it out and plugged it into a datapad, sitting down next to Ratchet to pull up the code and file information before handing it over. “I will be very, very angry if you take the chance to erase it. I don’t have another copy.”

“I wouldn’t,” Ratchet said quickly, hurt by the insinuation. He hadn’t even considered it before Drift had said anything. Looking down at the screen, he scrolled through the log, working backward from the most recent use this cycle to the date the single file on the dataslug had been created — around the time Drift had left the Circle, if Ratchet had the timeline right. There wasn’t a single instance of a direct download; Drift really hadn’t ever plugged this copy in, only made copies from it, and those only rarely and spaced a good distance apart.

While he didn’t erase anything, he did take the opportunity to look at the code itself, scanning for the critical blocks that had been missing from the spent copy to see what it was designed to do. It was much tighter and more carefully written than the kind of boosters Ratchet remembered from the Dead End; whoever had written it really had designed it for ritual use, targeting very specific processing sectors to induce hallucinations without spilling over into unrelated systems. A sort of controlled, limited overclocking that would only be dangerous if engaged in many times within the same quartex.

It was, he hated to admit, more reminiscent of _medicinal scripts_ than street boosters.

Ratchet handed the datapad back. “Thank you.”

When the dataslug was secure again — secured in such a way that Drift himself couldn’t access it too many times without oversight, Ratchet realized — Drift took another deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be snappish.”

“I… thank you,” Ratchet said. Keep it simple. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

“I’m on the bridge next time you’re on shift, but I’ll see if I can sneak away for a klik or two anyway,” Drift offered. “Definitely see you when we’re both free again?”

“Yes.” One way or another he would have had time to deal with this by then, at least as well as he could. “I did miss you earlier. It was very boring in the medbay this cycle.”

“I thought you liked boring shifts in medbay?” Drift teased, rather experimentally, with a tentative smile.

“I like _calm_ shifts,” Ratchet corrected, a hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. It had the effect of making Drift relax, his smile turning much more genuine, as the teasing was returned. “Boring is better than triaging mass casualties, but too many joors of it dulls the processor and results in stupid mistakes.” Like the relay bundle he’d had to rewire three times before he got it right, something he should have been able to do without even thinking. “Though I suppose I’ll take boring over Silverstorm trying to start anything.”

“Decepticons being trouble?”

“So far he’s been the picture of cooperation, actually, if understandably withdrawn and a bit suspicious. I’m hoping things go as well with the next next one,” Ratchet said, knowing there was no guarantee.

“Ultra Magnus has informed me that I’m to stay away from decisions regarding their work shifts and paroles,” Drift informed him. “As well as staying away from them in general, to minimize the chance of any ‘incidents’, whatever that means. But I’m glad they’re getting taken care of.” He tilted his head, gesturing with his hand that he was getting a call and a klik later, sighed. “Duty calls. You can recharge here, if you want. I’m not going to kick you out.”

“That’s alright,” Ratchet said, following him out. “I’m not ready to rest just yet.”

Drift looked like he wanted to stay and pick at that, but he visibly stopped himself. “Okay,” he said instead. “I have to go look in on what Brainstorm broke this time.”

Ratchet shuddered. “Good luck with that.” He waved as Drift set off for the labs, then turned and went the other way toward the brig.

He wasn’t surprised to find he wasn’t the only one overworking this cycle. Fortress Maximus was still at the monitors, just like he’d been all the other times Ratchet had been here this cycle.

“Ratchet,” he greeted.

“Fort Max.” Ratchet glanced at the monitors. It looked like the gossip session that usually followed Silverstorm’s return had died down quickly this time. “Would now be a good time to talk to Blueray?”

“Privately? If so, I’ll need to move mechs around to free up a cell. Otherwise, go right ahead.”

“I don’t mind talking to him where the others can hear,” Ratchet said. “Unless you think it would be better to do negotiations separately.”

“Not particularly. The group he’s in with right now are neutral or positive about the idea of working for repairs, and Blueray has made no secret of his desire to get permission for something while you’re in a generous mood.” That last was said wryly; by now Fort Max knew Ratchet’s “generous mood” and offering repairs in exchange for work was more about a medic’s duty of care than exploiting the extra hands to do tedious cleaning. He stood and checked the electro-baton he’d been assigned from the armory before holstering it. “Shift change soon, but they don’t know that.”

“Then let’s go see him and find out just how generous he’s hoping I am,” Ratchet said, happy to put his other thoughts on hold for the task at hand. “After you.”

Blip was recharging, so he didn’t start yelling the nanoklik Fort Max’s large frame darkened the doorway into the cell block, and his cellmates didn’t seem interested in waking him. Those mechs still awake in the more crowded cells woke those recharging with a faint, suspicious susurrus of sound. Someone even called out Silverstorm’s name, obviously assuming Ratchet was here for him, and the single, lone mech’s optics blinked on briefly in response. He went back to feigning sleep when they kept going past his cell.

“Blueray,” Fort Max called, and the dark blue beastformer approached the bars while the others in with him crowded against the far wall.

“Hi,” Ratchet said, drawing the mech’s attention to him. “You mentioned an interest in making a trade earlier. Thought we might figure out what that would look like.”

“Yeah.” The mech’s beast-mode optics blinked. “Being stuck in primary’s driving me crazy,” he said, somewhat flippantly. “I’d like a couple of joors to run around and give my alt a work out. More than willing to trade a couple of shifts of cleaning for that.”

“Exercise instead of repairs?” Not what Ratchet had been expecting. Also not something he could conduct entirely in the medbay, for obvious reasons. “What is your alt?”

Blueray’s field tinged with embarrassment. “I’m a turbodog.”

Ratchet had already guessed something canine based on his kibble. What was so embarrassing about that? It certainly could contribute to feelings of claustrophobia, although… “Just the one time?”

“Silverstorm says you’re only accepting case by case trades right now,” he responded flatly.

“Yes, but if needing to run is a problem now, it’s going to be a problem again later.” Unless it wasn’t the real underlying problem. Ratchet hadn’t checked Blueray’s file before coming down like he should have, but he thought he remembered something from all the time he’d spent sifting through and transferring the data. “You have stiff joints?”

“Not quite,” someone behind him heckled and Blueray snarled back; both mechs jumped and quickly adopted meek postures when Fort Max hit the bars with his baton in warning.

“It’s my t-cog,” Blueray went on, subdued. “If I don’t transform every couple decacycles, I can get stuck in one mode or the other. Or sometimes in between.”

Aha! “You know you could trade for me to fix that, right?” T-cog problems could be a sign of an underlying problem, but Ratchet could do a check up on Blueray to make sure that none of them were the cause of his getting stuck. Depending what there was to find in his patchy medical file, and what Blueray said during the check up, it was probably just like First Aid’s initial problem on Delphi: he needed a new one.

Which Blueray confirmed with his next words. “Can’t be fixed. New t-cog’s expensive; ain’t gonna trade that for a few cycles of cleaning, unless…” He trailed off a bit speculatively. “Might be willing to wear a leash for you, for a while.”

Ratchet didn’t think he wanted to know exactly what he meant by that. “A new t-cog’s expensive, yes, but it’s a pretty straightforward procedure to swap them out. Nothing like what I’m doing for Silverstorm,” which was going to take almost an entire shift to complete, start to finish. Maybe more. “And I’m here to trade work, not favors.”

“Favors are work from my side of the deal,” Blueray scoffed. “But if you don’t want them, what do you want? For a new t-cog,” he specified.

Since everyone knew Silverstorm was working off a baseline of five shifts for his repairs, Ratchet went ahead and offered, “Five work shifts in the medbay doing the same kind of work your colleague’s been doing. If doing work over on the ships becomes an option, three shifts there. Speaking of salvage, we do actually have more than the usual number of certain replacement parts available.” Including t-cogs, which were conveniently one size fits all. That should help him feel less like he needed to offer too much in trade to earn one.

Both sets of optics narrowed as Blueray considered that, looking for flaws and loopholes. “No leash?”

“Working chains only,” Ratchet confirmed. “No leash.”

“Sure, then.”

“All right. As soon as Silverstorm’s done, you’re up next.” Unless he and the others got the chance to work concurrently with Ultra Magnus instead. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Looking forward to it.” His optics flicked between Ratchet and Fort Max.

“We’re done for now,” Ratchet said, waving him back to his berth. Blueray didn’t need to be told twice and was back on it almost before Ratchet had finished turning away. He held back a chuckle as he returned to the monitors with Fort Max. “That went well.”

“You realize he attempted to proposition you?” the much larger mech asked bluntly, lowering himself back into the chair.

“I noticed him offering to trade something he thought might have higher value than janitorial scutwork,” Ratchet shrugged. “You heard him: ‘favors are work from my side of the deal’. He wasn’t trying to make things easier, just more equitable — for a twisted definition of the word.”

“Hmm. Yes. He was extremely honest about it.” Fort Max’s optics narrowed in thought.

“On a Decepticon ship it would have been a smart offer. From what I’ve come to understand, protection is the most common thing they trade sex for, and repairs aren’t that far off from protection.”

“Ah. I suppose they aren’t. Especially non-vital repairs.”

“I’m certainly not going accept a trade like that, but I’m not surprised he tried to make one.” Even after what he’d just said to Blueray, Ratchet suspected some of the others might still make similar offers. “I suppose someone should probably warn Ultra Magnus about that before he winds up on the wrong end of such a proposition.”

The warden huffed out a barely-there laugh. “I doubt he’d understand it if he did. I suspect if you hadn’t taken the place of the officer who could potentially improve their lives, I would already be fending off those offers myself. Congratulations.”

“Lucky me,” Ratchet said wryly. He didn’t mind too much though; at least he knew better than to take offense over them. “You said you’re going off shift soon, yes?”

“As soon as Sunstreaker gets here.”

“Rest well then,” Ratchet said, knowing he should go and rest himself. As he waved goodbye and stepped back out into the hall though, he still didn’t really want to. Being alone in his quarters would mean being alone with his thoughts, and those were still very conflicted. Maybe he’d be better off at Swerve’s as one of the primary social areas of the ship, and the only one that served engex. If Rung happened to be there, he’d know better than to let himself get ambushed this time!

Though if he was actually thinking about Rung, maybe he should try talking to someone. Not Rung; if Drift had a religious exemption in his file, Rung would have been involved in signing off on it, but he wouldn’t tell Ratchet about it. Not unless he approached with a concern as the ship’s CMO instead of Drift’s worried lover. But if not Rung, then who? The only religious person Ratchet knew besides Drift was Cyclonus, and they weren’t precisely on the best of terms. They weren’t on _bad_ terms either, but Ratchet still didn’t feel right about approaching him out of the blue and asking him what his personal stance on ritual drug use was.

He dithered for a bit, running through names in his head. First Aid wasn’t working now, but while he and Ratchet got along well, they weren’t so close he felt he could talk about this with him. Talking with Smokescreen would be almost as bad as talking to Rung, and Rodimus… no. He didn’t need to talk to Rodimus to know what he’d say about it. Someone had to have put that exemption in Drift’s file, and it hadn’t been Ultra Magnus.

So who could he talk to?

He’d almost decided to give it up as a bad idea and risk a peek in at Swerve’s when he remembered where Drift had gone at the beginning of his shift.

Brainstorm wasn’t the only scientist on the _Lost Light._ Maybe Perceptor would have a moment to spare.

There was, worryingly, a curl of smoke coming from the cracked open door to Brainstorm’s lab when he passed it. He heard muffled voices from inside: Brainstorm definitely, and Drift, and… Whirl? Ratchet recognized the helicopter’s voice as it briefly raised over those of the other two mechs. Careful to walk quietly so they wouldn’t notice his presence, Ratchet continued on to Perceptor’s door and pinged to see if he was there.

The door opened to his ping, so that was a good sign.

Inside, Perceptor was frowning contemplatively at a large, smooth metal board, on which was scribed a _very_ complex equation. “Am I better off not even asking what that’s a part of?” Ratchet asked, not expecting to understand the answer if Perceptor chose to give one.

“It’s a new potential set of equations for the unification of quantum and gravitational physics that doesn’t use the same shortcuts string theory does. On the plus side, it reduces the number of potential multiverses to something that may be testable. I am attempting to determine if the Dead Universe supports or refutes the mathematical model.”

Nope, hadn’t really understood that. “Is this a bad time to interrupt your thought process then?”

Perceptor turned and blinked at him — disconcerting as that was with that enhanced targeting feed over one of his optics. “Is this a social visit or a medical issue?” he asked bluntly.

“I suppose it probably falls more under the category of social, even if someone is doing something I wouldn’t consider medically advisable,” Ratchet said.

“What’s Drift done now?”

Of course he didn’t have to say it was Drift for Perceptor to know who he meant. “He’s using boosters for religious rituals.” Showing a complete lack of surprise at the statement, Perceptor just tilted his head, waiting for Ratchet to continue. “I can’t stop him,” he said, talking his way through his thoughts. “I can’t stop him, but I don’t like that he’s doing it, even if what he’s using now is much safer than what he used to use.” Because it was, objectively. Used in moderation, as Drift seemed to be doing, there was almost no chance of him damaging his processor with the particular script in question. “Why open the door to that temptation when there’s no need?”

Perceptor’s field turned quizzical. “Presumably he feels there is a need. One does not undertake the literal mountain of datawork required to get a religious exemption for that sort of thing on a mere whim.”

“No, but I’ve seen addicts jump through some pretty complicated hoops to justify their use.” Which wasn’t completely fair to say about Drift. Ratchet sighed. “I know that’s not why he did it,” he said. “He told me, showed me he’s being careful, using them only for a handful of rituals, and I believe him when he says that’s all he intends them to be for.”

“You don’t believe he can remain in control of his use?” Perceptor asked, like Ratchet was presenting him with a particularly intriguing math puzzle.

“I don’t believe he _won’t,”_ Ratchet said, letting out a huff of frustration at least as much self-directed as it was at Drift. “But it would be easier to not use them at all, and that’s not what he’s chosen to do, and I don’t understand why.”

“Because you struggle with the idea of religion as a motivation for anything,” Perceptor pointed out the obvious. “Even as you followed a _Prime_ for millions of vorns,” he teased gently.

“I didn’t follow Optimus because I believed he was a divine emissary of Primus or any such nonsense,” Ratchet snarked back. “Even when others followed him for that reason, it wasn’t the _only_ reason.” Which had made it easier to ignore, but Ratchet couldn’t do that here. “You’re right that I don’t understand religious motivation. It looks like stupidity to me, and it’s frustrating to see mechs as smart as Drift using it as a crutch.”

 _Exasperation_ flared in Perceptor’s field, only to vanish behind a veneer of calm. “He’s not the only one,” Ratchet thought he heard him mutter as he looked back to his equations, going through a pattern of in and out venting that reminded him of Drift’s meditation he did when holding back his temper.

“I’m aware I’m in the minority with that opinion,” Ratchet said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not trying to be offensive on purpose. I don’t mean I think everyone onboard this ship is an idiot.” Mostly. Not all the time. “I guess I’m just having trouble reconciling yet another thing we disagree on.”

“I am wondering,” Perceptor said evenly, “how someone as quite frankly blindingly intelligent as you are can be so incredibly _dense.”_ His field flared back into exasperation; this time he didn’t bother tamping it down. “Most of the mechs on this ship are _not_ believers, and those who _are,_ are statistically less likely to engage in idiotic behavior than those who are not.”

“So… what?” Ratchet asked, feeling every bit the idiot Perceptor had called him and not above admitting he didn’t understand.

“Drift. Is. Not. The. Only. One. In your _relationship._ Whose belief interferes with logical analysis.” Perceptor continued glaring at the equations like they had personally offended him rather than Ratchet.

 _“My_ belief? In what? I don’t believe in gods and mysticism, and neither do you,” Ratchet said with a flicker of annoyance. “How is that not logical?”

“I believe empirical evidence so far has not supported the existence of gods. I believe a god is not a necessary component of the observable universe,” Perceptor answered ruthlessly. “You believe there _can_ be no such thing. As reflexively and rigidly as those who insist there are gods. You even,” his voice turned a touch cruel, “have your own version of a heretic: anyone who follows a religion is stupid.”

Ratchet’s hands clenched reflexively with anger, but he wasn’t about to lash out at anything physically. “By my own ‘not-logic’ then,” he said hotly, “I’m as stupid as Drift?”

Perceptor’s silence spoke volumes.

He was tempted to just storm out of the room. Ratchet didn’t need to stand here and be insulted when he was trying to understand! Only the knowledge that it wouldn’t help if he left kept him standing there long enough for Perceptor’s words to sink past the emotional reaction they’d caused to a place he could actually think about them.

Slowly Ratchet’s fists relaxed. “There’s no discussion to be had when we’ve both already decided what we believe,” he said slowly, still upset but able to recognize the impasse now that it had been pointed out. Being open-minded _sucked._ “I’m not going to understand his reasons because I disagree with the underlying principle.”

“Yes.” Perceptor sounded relieved, and as the annoyance faded from his field, he finally turned back to look at Ratchet. “I also disagree with the underlying principle, but belief is… belief is in the rather chaotic realm of emotions, which I do not do well with.”

“Pfft. I wouldn’t say I’m doing so well with them myself right about now.” On the plus side, while there was no logical, rational answer to the problem of Drift using boosters that Ratchet thought he shouldn’t, there was an emotional one. “But I’d rather be with him than convince him that I’m right.”

“An answer much less likely to result in sparkbreak for both of you,” Perceptor nodded, satisfied. “If it helps, I believe you both not to be idiots.” His one visible optic flicked to the wall dividing his lab from Brainstorm’s so quickly Ratchet wasn’t sure whether or not he’d imagined it.

He settled for pretending he hadn’t seen anything. “Coming from someone as smart as you, I’ll take that as a high compliment,” Ratchet said with a smile. “Thank you.”

A ping from the door interrupted anything the scientist might have said in response. A nanoklik later, it slid open. “Perceptor, do you have a few— Oh.” Drift blinked in surprise. “Hi, Ratchet.”

“If I have to deal with any more of your relationship drama this decacycle,” Perceptor announced, “I will take a screencap from First Aid’s datapad and lock you both in a closet.”

Ratchet burst out laughing, both at the absurdity of Perceptor threatening to do something like that — and he probably really _would_ do it — and at the poleaxed expression on Drift’s face. “Oh, I think we’ll be fine for at least that long,” he said, walking over to Drift with an outstretched hand. “Right?”

Drift’s expression turned shy and welcoming. He reached out and held onto Ratchet’s hand like a lifeline. “Right.”

“I’m okay if you are?” Ratchet offered hopefully.

“I am if you are,” Drift responded.

“Good. Both of you get out of my lab. I have math I want to do.”

Drift’s gaze wandered over Ratchet’s shoulder and he smirked. “You know, Perceptor, if you want to wiggle your fingers into the inner workings of the universe, I’m sure the universe would appreciate it if you took it out for dinner and a movie first.”

“Out!”

“Leaving,” Ratchet assured him, tugging Drift with him back out into the hall. The door snapped shut on their heels the nanoklik they crossed the threshold. “I think we might have annoyed him just a bit.”

“Me more than you, I’m sure.” With a barely noticeable hesitation, Drift wrapped his arms around Ratchet and leaned in to bunt helm crests. “Boosh.”

“Boosh.” Ratchet chuckled. “Maybe he should be getting a bonus for unofficial counselling.”

Drift snickered. “I’d consider it, if he didn’t use his insider info to keep winning those betting pools I don’t know about.”

“Fair point.” Perceptor probably made more money that way than if he’d actually been on the payroll for providing therapy. “I’d offer to take you for that dinner and movie the universe is missing out on, but you’re still on duty.”

Drift’s field buzzed happily against Ratchet’s. “Our next off-shifts line up,” he reminded him.

“They do. Sounds like a good way to spend it to me.”

“Sounds like a perfect way to spend it,” Drift agreed. He bunted their helm crests together one last time, then reluctantly stepped away with a sigh. “Ultra Magnus just called.”

“Go placate him then,” Ratchet said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Definitely.”

Ratchet watched Drift hurry down the hall and decided he was ready for a drink now. A round or two would help him recharge.

.

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	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I forgot it was friday.

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Dinner — a couple of plates of Skids’ increasingly complicated and correspondingly unpredictable treats, energon tea, and a Solar Sunstreaker for Ratchet — gave Ratchet a good gauge of Drift’s mood the next time they were able to spend a whole shift together. Amazingly, he was less stressed and better rested than he’d honestly expected him to be. As much as Ratchet personally disagreed with the “vision quest” ritual, it seemed to have brought Drift a measure of peace.

He was careful not to ask about it, though. It was enough that Drift was in better spirits without getting into specifics they would only argue about. Fortunately, there were plenty of other topics of conversation to choose from.

“Has anyone managed to wear Ultra Magnus down yet?” Ratchet gestured to the lob ball banners strung around the bar. “Or is he still holding out on being the referee?”

“He’s still holding out. Rodimus started a petition.” Drift picked out a bright, clear treat Ratchet hadn’t cared for. He wasn’t sure Drift had really cared for it either, but of course he refused to not eat them, and had claimed all the ones Ratchet had disliked on their first round for himself. “Because we all know Ultra Magnus is extremely concerned with democracy and the opinions of everyone on this ship,” he drawled in a tone so dry, sodium wouldn’t have reacted in his vicinity.

“Why hasn’t Rodimus just ordered him to do it?” Ratchet knew why he wasn’t picking someone else and letting Ultra Magnus off the hook, but not why he was still trying to convince him instead of commanding him.

“Because he’s having fun being difficult,” Drift muttered, and Ratchet honestly wasn’t sure if he was referring to Rodimus or Ultra Magnus.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt anything to let them play their games, even if Ultra Magnus is fighting against the inevitable.” 

“Just don’t be surprised if someone approaches you with the petition,” Drift chuckled and popped another treat in his mouth with little regard for what flavor it was.

“He’ll hate me if I sign it.” Which wasn’t going to stop him from doing so when he got the chance. Ultra Magnus already thought Ratchet was a nuisance, but he wouldn’t let something like that influence his decisions regarding the prisoners. “Is your name on it?”

“Of course.” Drift tilted his head, mock serious. “It’s not like Ultra Magnus can dislike me more for having signed the useless thing. And after the audioful I got last cycle about ‘curbing Rodimus’ more inane ideas’, he deserves it.”

“He’s not really being fair to you, always assuming you’re working against him,” Ratchet said, reaching across the table. Drift did a lot to keep Rodimus and Ultra Magnus from working against each other; sometimes that meant nudging them toward a compromise, and sometimes it meant working against them both. “He should get to know you better.” 

Drift blinked, taking Ratchet’s hand automatically. Then a shy pleasure blushed through his EM field. “Ultra Magnus doesn’t bother me,” he said softly and honestly. 

“You don’t let a lot of things bother you.” It was a quality of Drift’s that Ratchet found both admirable and occasionally sad, given how frequently he had to exercise it. 

“I like to think I got that from Gasket,” Drift said, a little wistfully. “He wasn’t bothered by anything either. I lost that, for a very long time, before Wing taught me where my priorities should be, and Ultra Magnus’ attitude just isn’t worth my anger, or its consequences.”

“Sometimes I think you’re one of the only mechs on this ship who even remembers consequences are a thing,” Ratchet sighed, somewhere between joking and resigned.

“Or that consequences less than the terrible destruction of all life in the universe are still relevant,” Drift retorted with a flippant grin. “Given what the last few vorns have been like, it’s understandable that our priorities are all a little skewed.” 

“Fair point,” Ratchet allowed, “but it’s still something people should get back in the habit of considering.” It was something he’d been working on himself, and while it was by no means easy to reign back his temper when he’d gotten so used to lashing out with his frustrations, and was still  _ nowhere  _ near Drift’s level of serenity (and doubted he ever would be), he was much happier now than the bitter, angry mech who had first boarded the  _ Lost Light  _ looking for a place to die.

“So,” Drift picked up one of the treats Ratchet had rated very highly and held it out on his palm, like a peace offering… or bait. “You know about all of my youthful mishaps. When do I get to hear about some of yours?”

Saying he knew all his “youthful mishaps” was a gross understatement, but not one Ratchet felt the need to call him on. “Define ‘mishaps’,” he said instead, thinking back on some of the wilder events of his early life. Some had been fairly serious — or had had the potential to be serious, if they’d gone wrong — while others were just ridiculous.

“Well surely you didn’t crawl out of the ground already the Autobot CMO,” Drift teased as Ratchet reached for the treat in his hand. Luckily he didn’t withdraw it, as someone else might have while engaging in that sort of flirtation. “That’s a myth, and in fact, I know you didn’t. So tell me something crazy. A learning experience.”

“A learning experience, hmm?” Ratchet chewed on the treat to buy time, trying to pick a good story from when he’d been at university. “Like the time I went on break with a group of other students to ‘study’ and spent the whole decacycle joyriding? I learned a  _ lot  _ from that — and not a single bit of it from the coursework we were supposed to be memorizing.”

“Learned a lot about your alt mode, I bet.” Drift smiled. “Wild.” Fragger was laughing, Ratchet could tell. “Gotta know the limits of your own engine.”

“And the limits of my FIM chip, and certain processor and cabling limitations,” Ratchet added. “That was the one procedure we got any practice with on that trip: replacing fuses.”

“Good thing to practice.”

“And much more fun to practice when you actually had a reason.” Even if that reason had just been so they could blow them out again. “No one got seriously hurt on that break, even if we did do some pretty stupid things. There was a different occasion where I was out with a couple of friends,” Ratchet remembered, “and we got to driving far too fast for the road we were on, and one of them spun out. Caused a pretty big wreck.”

“Less fun at that point,” Drift said ruefully — the sort of ruefulness that came from having done the same damn thing at  _ some _ point. Ratchet wasn’t surprised.

“Much less fun. Back then not everyone had armor or reinforced plating, but medics were still built sturdy. Exocrine did more damage to the mech he ran into than he took from the collision, and Axon and I clipped a few people pretty hard as everyone crashed to a stop. We still went to the medcenter they took the others too, though; I actually wound up transporting one of them, which made the officer who showed up to take statements think I’d been there to respond to the accident instead of partially responsible for causing it.”

“Wiggling out trouble with the Enforcers even as a newling.” Drift’s optics sparkled and he offered another of Ratchet’s favorites from their communal pile. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“Really? And here I thought it was just because you liked my colors,” Ratchet teased.

“I  _ do _ like your colors. You’re beautiful.”

“Says the most attractive mech in the room.” Ratchet stroked Drift’s fingers as he took the treat from his hand. The compliment rolled off of Drift like water off waxed armor, neither exciting nor discomfiting him. “I didn’t always manage to get out of trouble though. Sometimes I think I spent more time causing problems for myself where there didn’t need to be any.”

“Yeah?” Curiosity flickered through Drift’s field, even as his engine purred a little at Ratchet’s caresses.

“I wound up being rather infamous among my class for arguing with instructors over things I didn’t agree with,” Ratchet said, not sorry at all about the majority of those arguments. “Not over what we were learning, usually — First Aid is  _ much  _ more into experimental medicine than I ever was, outside of necessity — but over how what we were learning was being applied.” 

“Hence the clinic?”

“That was one of my later protests, yes.” Ratchet hadn’t wanted to get too political in his storytelling, but he’d been too involved in politics one way or another most of his life to avoid it entirely. “Even before I had the resources for projects like that though, I made my opinions clear in other ways. Not very effective ways,” he said regretfully, “but I was outspoken enough that by the time I graduated, several of my friends warned me I was headed for trouble. Some had even distanced themselves to avoid fallout by association, which I remember thinking was an overreaction at the time.” How naive he’d been.

“You’re going to have to tell me more about that later, because that’s a side of politics I haven’t seen personally.” Drift stroked Ratchet’s fingers at the same time Ratchet tried to stroke his, resulting in them getting a little tangled… something that didn’t seem to trouble him at all. “But first I want to hear more about Ratchet’s racing mishaps.”

“You think I was foolish enough to get into more than one accident?” Ratchet gasped in mock astonishment. Whether Drift had sensed his reluctance to talk politics and backed off accordingly or was just more interested in hearing more about racing, he was grateful for the change in topic. “Not all of them were unsanctioned. The races, that is, not the accidents.”

“Just because a race is sanctioned, doesn’t mean it’s safe,” Drift pointed out reasonably.

“Some of them were deliberately unsafe, actually. We all had to be able to drive through ‘reasonably’,” Ratchet added the quotation marks with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “hazardous conditions in order to reach patients, and they were serious about preparing us for that; even if their tests didn’t involve the land mines, mortar rounds and live blaster fire we  _ actually  _ wound up needing to maneuver through.”

Drift looked down, apologetic. “I don’t think most of them were specifically aimed at you,” he offered. 

“Most of them probably weren’t, but it’s not like the intent would have mattered if I’d been hit.”  _ When  _ he’d been hit, and some of them  _ had  _ been aimed at him, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. For all his infamous ferocity on the battlefield, Deadlock hadn’t been responsible for the war itself, and as far as either of them knew, hadn’t been personally responsible for any of the ordnance flying around near Ratchet. Drift didn’t need to feel guilty for it. He’d survived, after all. “Anyway, I did fine on the official practice runs, racing against my own best times, but sometimes we’d take over the track for a cycle and come up with modified races — adding extra rules and obstacles and the like to make it harder.” 

There was still a shadow in Drift’s optics, but he brightened at returning to the topic of practice racing. “Yeah? Like what?”

“All kinds of things,” Ratchet said, laughing at some of the sillier ones. “There was one time we had twice as many barricades as usual to mess around with because they’d just gotten in a new set of fresh, undented ones but hadn’t thrown out the old ones yet. By the end of the cycle you couldn’t tell most of the new ones from the old anymore,” he admitted. “Axon liked to play dispatch, calling out changes mid-race like ‘the patient’s just gone into a cascade failure, if you don’t get here in three kliks we’re going to lose him!’ to make us go faster, or ‘there’s been an explosion on the bridge from the fire, go around the long way’ to make us do extra laps.”

“Sounds like it was fun.” Drift sounded wistful again. “What was your best time on a race? If you don’t mind telling me.”

“I don’t mind telling you at all, though I’m not sure what exactly qualifies as my best time. Do you mean on the official course?”

Drift’s field turned self-deprecating. “I wouldn’t know the difference. How about you tell me the best time you’re most proud of.”

“Hmm. That would have been…” Ratchet had to pause and think. He’d been proud enough of his performance on the track at the time, but even back then the accomplishments that had meant more to him and stuck better in his processor had involved his hands, not his tires. “Ah, yes. We set up a course once and almost didn’t get to run it. A power outage at the complex took down all the lights, and the emergency backup didn’t cover the training area. We waited for a couple of breems to see if they would come back on, but they didn’t, and some people suggested we give up and go somewhere else until someone,” he couldn’t remember who, specifically, “challenged someone else to do the course in the dark with only his headlights. I did better than everyone else there that cycle, with a time that was almost two entire kliks better than the mech who came in second.”

“Impressive!” Drift squeezed Ratchet’s hand. “Night driving’s pretty hard.” He picked up another treat and offered it to Ratchet with a smile.

“It was hard, and I was sure I’d done terribly by the time I crossed the finish line.” Ratchet took the treat, then nudged the plate back toward Drift. “I feel like I’m eating all of them,” he said, though of course he wasn’t. “But when we all compared times, it turned out I’d done not only better than I’d thought, but better than everyone else. We talked about it after, while we were out celebrating, and we decided it was a combination of two things.”

“Oh?” Drift chose a treat for himself — a gelled energon that had been rolled around a silvery frosting that tasted like mercury — and nibbled on it. “Now I’m curious.”

It wasn’t like it was any great revelation, but, “First, that I was willing to risk running into things and did a good job going just fast enough that it didn’t slow me down too much when I did,” unlike the daredevils who’d been willing to drive faster than him, but had paid for it in time when their collisions stopped them entirely, “and second…” Ratchet grinned. “I’d paid more attention than most of them before the lights went out.”

“So you had a better memory of where everything was.” Drift grinned. “Very clever.” He finished his rolled treat and picked another, then held out one to Ratchet.

“A couple of them tried to call it cheating, but it wasn’t like they couldn’t have done the same. They just hadn’t thought to.” This time Ratchet took a sip of his drink with the treat, enjoying the way the engex reacted with one of the elements in the gel to create bubbles. “Even the ones who’d set up the track hadn’t really bothered to create a mental map of it from start to finish before they lost the chance.”

“If there’s no rules, there’s no cheating.” Drift’s smile turned lopsided and roguish. Then he sighed, disappointed. “As much as I’d like to hear  _ all _ about your exploits — sanctioned and unsanctioned — if we keep dawdling, Rewind will start the movie without us.” He sipped his tea.

“Is it that late already?” Ratchet hadn’t been paying attention. “I suppose I’ll spare you the rest… for now.”

“I liked hearing it,” Drift insisted quietly. He finished his cup and plucked another treat, this one a cluster of iridescent black crystals, from the plate. “I bug Roddy to tell me about learning to race, too.”

“He’s got his own share of crazy stories, I bet.”

“Oh he does. I’m not sure I should tell you, though,” he teased. “It wouldn’t do to embarrass the captain.”

“The captain doesn’t need help embarrassing himself,” Ratchet couldn’t stop himself from saying, but it lacked any real bite. “What about you?”

“You don’t really want to hear my learning to drive stories,” Drift deflected. “Yours are much more fun.”

Oops. He should have known better than to ask that question. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. It’s a reasonable question.” Drift chose one of the last few treats and nibbled on it. “And if you want specific stories, I’ll tell you later, but I learned to drive as part of my combat training.” Unspoken was who had given him that training.

“Another time then,” Ratchet said, unsure whether he wanted to revisit the subject later or not. Either way, he let it drop for now, and finished his drink. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”

Drift considered the last three treats. Ratchet hoped he wasn’t about to shove them all into his mouth at once, though he wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. But instead, with a quick, furtive look that Ratchet almost missed, Drift palmed the last of the treats and subspaced them. “Ready.”

Ratchet quirked a brow ridge. Taking solid fuel outside the bar? That was against the rules!

Drift just gave Ratchet an arch, challenging look. He slid out of the booth, standing. “So what movie are we seeing?”

“It’s a new addition to the library.” Ratchet didn’t say anything about Drift sneaking the treats. He doubted he was the only one sneaking fuel out, given how much easier it was to subspace Skids’ baking creations than liquid fuel, and it wasn’t Ratchet’s job to enforce the rule. The only one of Ultra Magnus’ rationales for it Ratchet agreed with was that it could potentially attract and foster the inevitable stowaway pests on the ship. Some mechs just couldn’t be trusted to keep fuel in their rooms, but given how clean Drift kept his, Ratchet wasn’t worried at all about scraplets or whatever in there. “I don’t know much about it, other than Rewind was really excited when he learned it was there. Apparently it’s a prewar film from Cybertron.”

“Ooo… sounds interesting.” Shy and giddy, Drift took Ratchet’s hand to hold as they walked. Ratchet saw a few amused looks follow them out the door of the bar, but for the most part, he and Drift spending time together had become so commonplace it wasn’t worth talking about anymore. Even their newly announced exclusivity had been taken with a collective shrug from the  _ Lost Light’s _ usual gossipers. Ratchet knew it had made it out into the rumor mill from Ambulon, because First Aid had squealed and Rung had offered quiet congratulations, but for the most part there had been no reaction.

Maybe it just didn’t seem like a big deal because, outwardly, nothing had actually changed. Neither of them had exactly been spending time with other partners before declaring that they wouldn’t, after all.

They weren’t the only mechs eager to see the new movie; when they arrived at the lecture hall, they found a good sized crowd already gathered there. The lights were still up though, and there were still seats available in the back.

A few mechs gave them sour expressions as they pushed their chosen chairs closer to each others’ and Ratchet immediately pulled Drift into his lap, working around the Great Sword with only a little difficulty. They hadn’t been the quietest of viewers during their last date, though Whirl had taken the night’s prize for most disruptive. Drift gave the sourpusses a sunny, cheerful grin, while Ratchet glared, and they turned back to waiting.

Soon enough, Rewind called for quiet and began the film. The beginning surprised Ratchet; it wasn’t a typical recording, but a sort of stylized animation with an overlaid narration. Drift’s field flickered in startled recognition almost immediately. He didn’t clarify though, just settled in to watch. 

Watch… and other things, Ratchet thought, feeling Drift’s fingers tracing the armor seams on his thigh.

Idly wondering just what sort of film they were in for if Drift recognized it, Ratchet settled back to watch while his hands teased innocently over Drift’s side. It was only fair, after all.

The initial segment of animation gave way to regular filming after a few kliks, revealing that what had appeared to be basic backstory and exposition for an alien world of some sort was in fact the lead character’s internal perception of Cybertron itself. Clinquant was a merchant, one who seemed to be struggling to make ends meet. Given the time period — the shots of the exterior of the shop and the neighborhood it was in made Ratchet feel nostalgic — that wasn’t surprising. There had been a lot of new edicts around that time, and they’d made things difficult for a lot of mechs.

As Clinquant arranged his inventory, the film segued back into animated segments. The “alien world” became very familiar, and Ratchet found himself rubbing Drift’s finials almost absently as he tried to match up the details with the increasingly fragmented live action segments. There was something dangerous about Clinquant’s perception that just wasn’t matching up to Cybertron, either as Ratchet remembered it, or as it was shown outside the imaginary construction of it.

The production value was lower than other Cybertronian films Ratchet was familiar with, but while it became increasingly obvious the movie had been made on a tight budget, it wasn’t incompetently done. Oh, it was impossible to believe that Clinquant was actually meeting a prospective partner in Praxus instead of standing in front of the same window that fronted his shop with an image of the city skyline projected onto it accompanied by some props set up to imply they were outside, but the two actors both gave good performances and it was cleanly cut together with more animation segments.

He didn’t realize how into the movie, in trying to figure out the shadows that haunted the animated world, he’d gotten until Drift’s fingers wiggled into the gap where Ratchet’s thighs met his pelvic span and tickled a major sensory node.

Ratchet only partially managed to stifle a squawk of surprise. “Drift!”

“Hmm?” Drift looked up at him, projecting innocence, as the mech directly in front of them turned around to glare. Not that Ratchet was buying the innocent act because Drift’s fingers were  _ still in his leg. _

“Pest,” Ratchet whispered, tweaking one finial point. “People are trying to watch the movie.” On the screen Clinquant was arguing with someone — himself or the partner in Praxus, it was deliberately unclear — about being perceived as a fraud. Ratchet  _ thought  _ that was an unfounded fear, since all his dealings, while miserly, had been legit, but the shifting, fragmented perspective made it hard to be sure. 

“I’m not the one making noise,” Drift whispered back, tweaking a bundle of wires that always made Ratchet moan or hiss.

This time, he did both.

“Shhh!” More than one person was glaring at them now.

Ratchet batted Drift’s hand away. “Stop that,” he whispered, though he could tell by the sparkle in Drift’s optics that he wasn’t about to just sit still. Ratchet gave a silent chuckle, then did his best to focus on the movie while Drift started looking for new places to lodge his fingers.

He would have liked to say he gave as good as he got, but Drift had a definite advantage. He might not have been able to reach much of Ratchet’s frame from his position, leaning with his back to Ratchet’s chest, but he had no shame about teasing all of Ratchet’s touchy spots, making him fight to keep the noise from his fans down to a dull roar. Ratchet, on the other hand, could reach more of Drift’s frame — almost all of it, even — but kept his touches firm and relatively chaste. He relished the purring idle of Drift’s engine, savoring the familiar planes and edges of his armor, but wasn’t trying to draw moans or gasps of surprise and arousal from the all-too-pleased-with-himself speedster.

He’d completely lost track of the plot or the point the film was trying to make by the time their neighbors had had enough of them.

_ “Why don’t the two of you go somewhere else and finish each other so we can all enjoy finishing the movie?”  _

Ratchet knew Drift had received the same message when his hands stopped. Both of them looked over at Rewind, who was staring back at them with arms crossed in a stern pose. 

_ “You heard me,”  _ he said when they made optic contact. He drew himself up in an attempt to look authoritative, but there was a hint of humor in his voice under his irritation.  _ “I’m going to have to ask you to leave for being disruptive.” _

_ “Like he’s got any room to talk,” _ Drift muttered privately, but willingly got up off Ratchet’s lap and turned to offer his hand to help the medic stand.  _ “I get more noise complaints about them than I do  _ **_Whirl,_ ** _ and that’s just counting the ones I get when they’re in private.” _

_ “That’s… got to be a lot of complaints.”  _ Ratchet accepted Drift’s hand and waved to Rewind as they headed for the door.  _ “Wasn’t a very romantic movie anyway,”  _ he said to both of them.

_ “Next time we’ll pick a better one to disrupt,” _ Drift added cheekily. Rewind just shook his head as they slipped out.

The door wooshed closed behind them, and Ratchet found his arms full of giggling white plating. “Happy now? You got us thrown out.”

“I wasn’t the one making noise,” Drift repeated, unrepentantly.

“No, but you were the one making  _ me  _ make noise,” Ratchet laughed. “It’s almost a shame, I was curious where the story was going that time.”

“Nowhere good. We can download it from Rung’s library and watch it in private if you want.”

“So you had seen it before?”

“Not… exactly.” Drift shrugged. “I’ve seen a few copycat short films that used the same style. They all end the same way, so I think that’s something the filmmakers lifted from the original along with the use of animation.”

“We can find out for sure later,” Ratchet said. Curious as he was, he wasn’t as interested in the end of the movie as he was in the mech in his arms. “Right now, I think I’d rather you followed through on all that teasing.”

“Oh, I will,” Drift purred. “Though I think in the interest of not getting kicked out of another venue, I should ask if you want to go to your room or mine.”

“Doesn’t really matter to me, though I think mine is technically closer.” By a little bit, anyway; enough to justify the decision. Ratchet bunted their foreheads together, then drew back to start walking. “Coming?”

Drift trotted to catch up and pounced on Ratchet’s hand with a smile. “Yes.”

They made good time getting back to Ratchet’s habsuite. Drift was nowhere near as handsy as he’d been in the movie, but there was a bright anticipation in his field that had Ratchet smiling and quickening his steps. He was entirely unsurprised and pleased when Drift barely waited for the door to close behind them to jump him.

Ratchet’s arms were full of amused speedster again, and this time he wasn’t at  _ all _ shy about running his fingers along Ratchet’s sides, teasing along his pelvic armor. His fans soon picked up again, and he let them without any concern for how loud they got. “You are entirely too good at this,” he gasped when Drift found that spot just above his thighs.

“Practice,” Drift responded flippantly. “On the berth, please. Before you fall over.”

“I’d say I won’t fall, but I know better by now.” Ratchet moved to the berth, harried by more flirty caresses. “And I do like it when you climb on top of me.”

“I can do that.” Drift teased one hand along the line of armored spinal port covers down Ratchet’s back. “Do you want me to cuff you tonight?” he offered, gently.

Now  _ there  _ was a good idea. “Yes!” The box was still in his subspace, and Ratchet reached around to retrieve it. “Please.”

Drift didn’t take it until Ratchet was settled on the berth, and he’d climbed up onto him, divested of his swords. “Are you going to want a data connection?” He opened the box and pulled out the cuffs. They were just as  _ orange _ as Ratchet remembered, if a dark, tasteful shade. Orange for sexual appetites. A quick pass of the key made them pop open enticingly. “If so, we may need to experiment with some positions until you’re comfortable.”

“I’d rather really feel pinned,” Ratchet said, after thinking it through. “Any position that would still allow me to plug in will be less—”  _ compromising  _ “—secure, and as nice as you make that connection, it does distract a bit from the physical input.”

“As you wish.” Drift arranged them so that Ratchet was supine and straddled his hips. His grip was gentle as he juggled the cuffs and one of Ratchet’s hands. “Ready?” 

Ratchet nodded. “I’ve got my safeword, and I trust you.”

The cuff closed around his wrist. Drift took a moment to check the fit, then locked Ratchet’s other wrist up too. 

He hadn’t expected to panic, and he didn’t. Ratchet appreciated the moment Drift gave him to adjust and make sure, but it wasn’t necessary. “I’m fine,” he said, smiling when a test pull against the cuffs proved he was well and truly stuck with them. “Now touch me.”

“Hmm… Let me think about that.” He pushed Ratchet’s hands over his head; the wall kept them from going too far, but Drift held them there with one hand. He stared down at Ratchet hungrily. “Not yet. I want to look at you first.”

Ratchet felt as trapped by Drift’s gaze as his hands. “You really like looking that much, huh?”

“I keep telling you, you’re beautiful.” Now Drift’s free hand started wandering Ratchet’s frame. Lightly, teasing, admiringly, drifting over highlights and following his own whim rather than zooming directly back to the spots that would make Ratchet’s engine hitch. 

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Ratchet said, nonetheless warming slowly under the touches. “I just don’t think much about how I look.” As in, he didn’t think about his appearance often, not that he thought it was lacking. His own aesthetics were hardly the most important concern on his processor most of the time, but he did like his current frame. “I’m glad you like what you see.”

“Keep your hands on the wall,” Drift commanded softly. “Or I’ll stop.” He didn’t wait for Ratchet to answer and trailed his hand down over Ratchet’s arms, seeking out the few sensitive spots there, mostly on his upper arms, where the armor was a little thinner.

“Well I certainly don’t want that,” Ratchet said and complied, keeping his bound hands against the wall where Drift had put them.

Drift shifted downward to straddle and pin Ratchet’s legs. His fingers swept slowly down Ratchet’s frame, admiring him, before trailing a feather light touch over his abdominal plating. “I ever mention how interesting this little feature of yours is?” He circled the circular piece of armor there.

“Not in so many words?” Maybe he had and Ratchet just didn’t remember; it was a liiiittle distracting when Drift paid attention to it. 

Like he was now. Drift’s fingers glided smoothly over the armor, circling in with a spiraling pattern. It wasn’t necessarily that the armor itself was sensitive, because it wasn’t. The way Drift crouched over him though, intent and focused, was a wonderful sight, and the heat of his frame and the pressure of his touches did send tingles running through Ratchet’s sensor net.

_ Lick! _

Ratchet twitched, but kept his hands above his head. 

Drift twitched, too. He sat up suddenly. “Ra~tchet. Do you mind if I,” with a flourish, one of the filched treats appeared in his hand. “Please?”

He wanted to— really? “I can’t stop you,” Ratchet said, rattling the cuffs gently as his vents hitched in anticipation. “Go ahead.”

“I’m not going to do something you object to,” he said softly, but urgently. “I really won’t.” He took a deep breath, then smiled. His own anticipation shivered through his field. Carefully, almost delicately, he placed the soft sticky gel on that circle of armor, almost like it was a plate. Immediately it stuck, the bottom edge melting where it touched Ratchet’s heated plating. Unbothered by that, Drift bent down to lick and nibble on it and the armor both.

If he thought about what Drift was doing, it was a little weird. If he focused on how it felt, however, it was pretty damn nice. Ratchet had to fight to keep himself from arching up into the touches, and Drift bearing down on him made his engine rev hotly.

Drift was enjoying it, too. Ratchet felt his engine purring, a different note than he was used to hearing during interface. It reminded him a little of the way he’d reacted to the biting… Drift definitely had a fuel kink, but Ratchet didn’t mind. If anything, he was developing a bit of a thing for those fangs and the way Drift used them.

Still trying not to arch up and pull away from the wall — he  _ definitely _ didn’t want Drift to stop! — he couldn’t help but writhe. With a huff of laughter, Drift pressed down to hold Ratchet still. Ratchet whined and struggled just a little; not to escape, but to feel Drift holding him that much better. “How much is left?” he asked, unable to see for himself.

“Not telling you,” Drift said teasingly between licks.

“Of course not,” Ratchet huffed, but that huff quickly became a gasp as Drift bit down gently on the edge of his armor. It didn’t really matter how much of the treat was left. Drift would keep going as long as he wanted to, even after it — and the other two he’d pocketed, probably — were gone.

He lost track after that. He was thoroughly pinned and very much enjoying what Drift was doing, he couldn’t move much, just struggle feebly against Drift’s hold. He couldn’t do anything but… let go.

By the time Drift moved up to place one of the gels — the second or third one, he didn’t know — on his windshield, sparks had started escaping from beneath his armor.

“Driiiift,” he moaned, pulling at the cuffs in a vain attempt to find an outlet for some of the rising charge.

“If your hands leave that wall, I’ll stop,” Drift reminded him, a note of teasing warning in his voice. Then he applied himself to nibbling the gel busy melting all over Ratchet’s windshield.

“Not leaving the wall.” He was trying to pull his hands apart, not down, though he was starting to wish Drift had cuffed them behind his back where he wouldn’t have to think about keeping them against the fragging wall. The fact that such a thing wasn’t at all practical, particularly given the way Drift was lying on top of him, was beside the point. 

He didn’t quite forget that he could make Drift stop at any moment, but the feeling of being restrained, being  _ unable _ to stop his lover from doing whatever he wanted, made Ratchet’s charge spiral higher. He’d always been able to just let go and enjoy without worrying about doing anything — Drift’s pleasure wasn’t in overload — but this went so far beyond just being  _ unworried. _

A counterpoint to the licking and nibbling across his windshield, Drift’s fingers wiggled under his bumper, toying with the mechanisms there, where by necessity they weren’t very well protected by his armor. Ratchet wiggled, unsure if he was trying to press into the touches or escape them, but knowing that either way he felt vulnerable and he wanted more. If Drift kept that up… Ratchet bucked with an incoherent cry when the speedster’s fingers found the emergency manual override for his armor clamps, the ones that would allow a medic to get at an injury underneath his chest armor with a minimum of fuss.

Was he going to trigger them? Did Ratchet  _ want _ him to?

“Don’t— ah!” Ratchet struggled with the words. “Don’t stop!”

“Won’t,” Drift promised. He continued to play with the latches while Ratchet squirmed. “Mine.”

He was that. Right now Ratchet was wholly and entirely Drift’s, and it was  _ perfect.  _ “Yours,” he confirmed, content to leave his armor where it was when it became clear Drift wasn’t actually going to open the latches. Just the idea that he could was already doing plenty alongside the gentle touches. 

Ratchet had narrowed his focus to Drift’s hands in that vulnerable gap in his armor enough that he didn’t notice him moving, and the gentle bite on his chevron came as a complete surprise. He jerked under Drift, hands coming away from the wall for just a nanoklik before he resolutely let them fall back. He didn’t want Drift to stop! “More!”

Drift’s next bite was harder; Ratchet felt the prick of his fangs scratching the paint on the sensitive metal before he licked the spot to soothe it.

All of the things Drift was doing were starting to overwhelm Ratchet’s processor. The heightened charge in his lines carried and amplified the sensory data, crowding out other thought threads in a deluge of pleasure. He couldn’t decide which felt better, that mouth or those hands, and he let each trade back and forth at the very top of his processing trees.

The bright flare of  _ pleasure-pain _ from Drift nipping the primary energon line in his neck made Ratchet cry out. It triggered a cascade of information that was half real, half imagined, and Ratchet finally let go of the last bit of control he’d been holding onto. The hot air around them crackled with electricity as he shouted out his overload, trapped and trembling beneath Drift.

He didn’t fall unconscious. He was bizarrely proud of that a klik later, laying in an exhausted heap while Drift went through his clean up routine, unlocking the cuffs and checking for scuffs, wiping down both their plating, and lighting a stick of incense. He might have blacked out a little, but he hadn’t fallen offline!

Drift chuckled. “No, you didn’t.”

“Did I say that out loud?” 

“You did.” He gently rubbed Ratchet’s chevron. “I gave you a few scratches. Do you keep any polish in here? I’ll buff them out.”

“Box under the workbench,” Ratchet said, pointing vaguely. He felt wonderfully relaxed, and was obviously a bit disoriented if he was saying things without being consciously aware of doing so. “That was remarkably enjoyable.”

Drift’s field flickered smugly as he left the berth long enough to retrieve the polish. “Here,” he said when he came back. Ratchet smelled the soapy wax smell of his own sturdy, matte polish. “I know your chevron’s sensitive, so this might sting a little, but I didn’t go deeper than the paint, I promise.”

“I’m not sorry you did it.” Ratchet did wince slightly at the initial contact of the buffing cloth, but it wasn’t enough to take the smile off his face. “Any of it.”

Drift was smiling too, engine still purring like it had been while licking the fuel from Ratchet’s armor. “Worth skipping the end of the movie for?”

“Definitely.” And, as Drift had pointed out, they could still see the end of the movie another time. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Finishing up buffing Ratchet’s chevron, Drift moved on to his windshield. He’d already cleaned any fuel residue off, but apparently wanted to make absolutely sure he hadn’t left any marks. “How are you feeling? Good, I know,” he interrupted Ratchet’s first response with a smile. “Other than that. Is there anything in specific you’d like me to repeat or avoid in the future?”

“I’d be okay with the same, maybe even more with those armor latches,” Ratchet said, thinking back. “I wouldn’t have objected if you’d opened them.”

“Wouldn’t have objected, or wanted me to?” Drift asked carefully, setting the polish and buffing cloth aside next to the cuffs and snuggling into Ratchet’s arms. 

“Hmm. I suppose there is a distinction there.” One Ratchet hadn’t thought of in the heat of the moment, and which he gave due consideration now. “I think perhaps a bit more of the former, though I can see that potentially changing,” he admitted.

“Alright. And we’ll talk more when we’ve evened out.” He cuddled into Ratchet’s chest. “I just want to make sure you’re okay…” Drift’s EM field buzzed happily against Ratchet’s.

“I’m very much okay.” Ratchet wrapped an arm over Drift and cuddled back. “If anything, I’d say next time I’d like to find a more restrictive position for my arms.”

“We can do some research,” Drift murmured.

“After a nap?” Ratchet guessed with a soft chuckle. He adjusted their position slightly, allowing Drift to settle even closer into his arms. “I won’t object to that.” 

It didn’t take either of them long to slip into contented recharge.

.

.

.

“On a scale of one to ten, how fast are you dying?” Ratchet didn’t quite snap when he heard the medbay door swish open. Silverstorm’s wiring was spread out all over the operating berth in front of him. His patient was stable, he could step away if needed, but it was a complicated, delicate operation and he’d prefer to get to a better stopping point before dealing with any of the  _ Lost Light’s _ normal stupidity.

“Um… not?” Rodimus’ voice answered.

Ratchet spared a glance up. The captain did look okay. He and Blueray were already staring suspiciously at each other. “Then why are you here?”

“You weren’t answering your com.” Shaking his head, Rodimus looked over Blueray’s set up, chained by the ankle to a medberth so he could clean the box of greasy parts in relative comfort. Realizing he was glaring at someone who outranked Ratchet, Blueray ducked his head and studiously ignored the paced circuit the captain made around him. “And Drift’s avoiding the medbay right now.”

“Of course he is.” Ambulon wasn’t around at the moment, but Blueray was, and Ratchet was  _ busy.  _ “I’m in the middle of a rather complex procedure right now.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Rodimus brushed off Ratchet’s irritation. “Meeting when you get off shift. Captain’s office.” Rodimus hated office meetings, but he always seemed more than pleased to  _ have _ an office. 

Ratchet wanted to snap that that was a stupid reason for Rodimus to have come down in person, but a quick check of his call log confirmed he’d indeed missed the captain’s previous attempts to notify him. “I’ll be there,” he grumbled instead. “I’ll bring this to a stopping point instead of running over if I don’t manage to finish.”

“Glad to hear it. It’s about your favorite topic!” Rodimus flashed Ratchet a grin. “So bring your list.”

That finally broke through Ratchet’s irritation over being interrupted. He looked up again, this time without the surly scowl. “Sure thing.” Hopefully there would be a place on that list they could all agree on to rehome Overlord, though even with all the research he’d done, Ratchet still had some concerns about most of them. They were worth discussing though. “Brawn, are you alright taking Blueray back without me later?” Unlike Silverstorm, Blueray had a beastformer’s claws.

“Sure. He won’t be much trouble,” Brawn answered at the same time the captain let out the incredulous squawk of “Blueray?  _ Really?” _

The Decepticon in question only hunched his shoulders. 

“You know him or something?” 

“No, but,” Rodimus turned back to Ratchet, snickering. “Blue-ray…  _ Blu- _ ray. You’ve been to Earth; tell me you aren’t thinking it too.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “I’m thinking it  _ now,”  _ he said, unable to un-hear the similarity when it was pointed out like that. “Leave him alone, he’s got a job to do.”

“Pfft. This isn’t a real job.” Rodimus chortled. “Starting next cycle, I’m authorizing Ultra Magnus to take volunteers to the ship to help there, if he and Red can hammer out the arrangements by then.”

“Oh?” That  _ was _ good news. Ratchet hadn’t made any deals beyond the ones with Silverstorm and Blueray yet, but part of that was due to the fact that several of the other prisoners had asked about arrangements for themselves all at once, and there was no way for Ratchet to supervise more than one mech at a time. “Thanks. I hope they can get everything sorted quickly.” And not just because it would solve the problem of too many volunteers. They still had several cycles before they would reach Hedonia, but once there, the need for workers to do salvage would decrease significantly.

Rodimus somehow managed to wave off Ratchet’s thanks, and preen over it, at the same time. “And if Blu-ray or any of the others cause any trouble, we’ll just leave them in the brig until we get somewhere they can live permanently.” He shrugged and started one more circuit around the medbay… as though checking that everything was alright.

What did he think was going to happen? Ratchet shook his head. “No trouble here,” he said, turning away from the Decepticon in chains and under guard to the unconscious one in front of him. “I’m fine.”

Rodimus scoffed. “Of course you are. You’re the  _ last _ person on this crew I’d worry about being able to handle yourself with a couple of ‘Cons.” Still, he finished checking over the medbay, before pausing next to the door out. “Meeting. See you there.”

“Yup. Bye.” He really was a pest. Nice to know he cared though. Ratchet waited for Rodimus to leave, then looked briefly up at Blueray. “You can still choose between fewer shifts over on the ship or continuing here,” he told him. “And, just for the record, Blu-ray isn’t an insult or anything. It’s just a type of data storage.”

“Wasn’t going to say anything.” He bent over the part he was scrubbing.

“Didn’t say it because I thought you were.” He’d just take whatever Rodimus had dished out quietly and be grateful it was just a little ribbing at his name, instead of physical, or even harsh verbal, abuse. He probably wasn’t escaping the Blu-ray nickname as long as he was on this ship, but Rodimus wasn’t truly cruel. 

Ratchet turned back to his work. The distraction had been enough that it took him a klik to reorient himself with the next part of the process, but soon he was back on track. If there weren’t a lot of walk-ins, he might still finish by the end of the shift.

Of course it was too much to hope for having no walk-ins at all, though fortunately the ones he got all walked in under their own power. Two mechs came in with dents and temp patches over injuries from salvaging, and Blaster came in with a patch of bubbled paint he thought might be a rash, but proved to be a small electrical scorch. Where he’d brushed up against a live wire and gotten scorched, he had no idea.

“Where were you when you first noticed it? Is someone checking the consoles on the bridge to make sure the short isn’t there?”

Blaster’s EM field blushed in embarrassment. “I was… in my quarters when I noticed it. I must have picked it up last cycle.”

“Uh huh.” Well, at least whoever he’d been with didn’t need to come in, since it wasn’t actually a rash. “It’s not a severe burn. Your self-repair will be able to take care of it just fine, though if you want to spread a little of this on it, it’ll speed things up.” Ratchet held up a single use packet of nanite gel. 

“Thanks, Ratch.” Blaster took the packet. “And I’ll get someone checking the bridge for shorts.”

“Good idea.” They probably wouldn’t find anything, but better safe than sorry.

When he got back to Silverstorm, Ratchet took stock of his progress and realized there was no way he was going to be done before he needed to be in Rodimus’ office — no way short of rushing the new connections, anyway, which he wasn’t going to do. Rush jobs were what had gotten the mech into this mess in the first place, and Ratchet was going to do this right, damn it. But that did mean working toward a point where he could leave him and come back later rather than working to finish. With his spark and processor disconnected from his frame and on support so that Ratchet could work without worrying about disrupting other vital functions, it wouldn’t hurt him at all to stay in the medbay, even half disassembled as he was. Ratchet just needed to make sure his connections were bundled so that they wouldn’t get mixed up, and cover him to keep everything clean. 

He’d just finished wrapping Silverstorm’s frame in clear, clingy wrap to keep out dust and other contaminants when Ambulon walked in. He took in Ratchet and his patient, and Blueray dumping out the bucket under Brawn’s supervision, with a look. “Anything I need to know?” 

“Silverstorm’s not ready to leave yet, obviously,” Ratchet answered. “I might come back and work on him some more later in the shift.” Unless the meeting went spectacularly well, he’d probably want something else, something work related, to focus on afterwards. “Other than that, nothing.”

“I’ll leave him alone then.” Ambulon fidgeted, picking at his paint, but he didn’t make Ratchet wait to tell him what he was thinking. “Has anyone approached you about the petition yet?”

“If you mean the one to make Ultra Magnus the referee for the lob ball league, I’ve heard about it,” Ratchet said, not bothering to mention who he’d heard it from. “No one’s asked me to sign yet though.”

“That’s the one. I have it with me; I’m supposed to ask you to put your name on it.” He sounded like he wasn’t actually very hopeful that Ratchet would.

But, as Ratchet had told Drift, he didn’t really have a reason not to. “Sure. Pass it over.”

Silently, the other medic passed over the datapad. Scrolling through the names, Ratchet saw that it had been making the rounds through the crew. Drift’s name was up near the top with Rodimus’. Ambulon, First Aid, and Whirl were a tangle of nearly overlapping glyphs. The players for all three teams were listed out. Rung. Smokescreen. Perceptor… It didn’t look like there was a single member of the crew who didn’t think Ultra Magnus would be the perfect referee. Oh wait; he didn’t see Cyclonus’ name.

Ratchet handed the datapad back once he’d added his own name to the bottom of the list. “Do you think this will be enough to convince him?”

“I don’t know him very well, so I don’t know,” Ambulon admitted. 

“I guess we’ll both find out then.” Ratchet wasn’t sure one way or the other himself. It was the sort of thing that might make a difference for being an official representation of everyone’s opinion… but might also be something Ultra Magnus ignored as having no relevance to what he was obligated to do. “I’ve got a meeting I need to get to. See you later.”

He followed Brawn and Blueray out into the hall, but separated from them almost immediately, heading toward the command levels of the ship. Idly, he wondered what the Decepticon would tell the others about the captain’s visit.

The door opened when he arrived, revealing both Rodimus and Drift already inside. Ratchet nodded to them and took a seat across the desk from the captain. “Ambulon finally brought me the petition,” he told Drift. “It almost reads like a copy of the entire crew manifest.”

“Excellent!” Rodimus rubbed his hands together, and making a fair imitation of Whirl’s cackle. “My Master Plan is coming along nicely.”

“Goof,” Drift told him fondly.

“Hey! I do have a plan!” the captain shot back. 

Ratchet crossed his arms, skeptical. “Care to share?”

Rodimus shrugged, twirling his laser etching tool in his fingers. “We all agree Ultra Magnus is a perfect ref for the lob ball game, right? But no one likes the ref, especially a strict one. So even if it’s basically what he does for ‘fun’ anyway, he’d still get cussed at for unpopular rulings and scrap. Not exactly bonding with the crew. But if  _ everyone _ gets involved in convincing him,  _ anticipating _ having him there for the first game…”

“…then they’ll all be happy to have him there and welcome him instead of ganging up on him,” Ratchet finished, impressed in spite of himself. “Very clever.”

“I am, aren’t I?” he preened.

“Ego in check,” Drift said, amused. “Or I’ll have to kick your aft.”

“Pfft. As if you could.” The two speedsters briefly postured at each other, fluffing their armor plating up and growling their engines.

“I can go if you two need a moment,” Ratchet said wryly. “Or we could have our meeting first and you can spar after.”

“I only  _ need _ a klik to kick this fragger’s aft to the engine room and back,” Rodimus bragged. Drift tilted his head sardonically. “But I’ll spare you the embarrassment of getting beaten in front of your boo and wait until after.”

“I’m shaking,” Drift said, utterly deadpan.

“Should be.” Then the captain tapped the end of his etching tool against the desk several times to call everyone’s attention. “Lists. I’ll go first. The only place I could think of was Garrus-9 — or 10, I guess. Whatever. Spark extraction, the whole nine yards. We’d have to make contact with Cybertron to find out where the facility is before we could make the trip, though.”

“Prowl would find out if we did that,” Drift murmured. “Even if he can’t stop us from dropping him off there, we’d essentially be handing Overlord back to him.”

“Not our responsibility at that point, though.”

“Maybe not, but I’d prefer not letting Prowl try this slag all over again with another mnemosurgeon,” Ratchet said, then added reluctantly, “and besides, if he found out before we unloaded him,” which there was a good chance of, given how involved Prowl always managed to be in  _ everything, _ “he’d want to know why you didn’t go through with it. I thought you were trying to avoid that conversation?”

“At least until he can’t countermand us, yeah,” Rodimus confirmed. “It’s not like he can court-martial us unless he can get his grubby paws on us, but it’s  _ Prowl. _ He _ always _ has a fallback plan. Somewhere. Somehow. And he will make our lives miserable in the process. But if Overlord’s out of his reach, he might not bother with revenge.”

“He might not… or he might set a trap for us when we go to hand Overlord to the new warden.” Ratchet had no idea what such a thing would entail, beyond knowing it wouldn’t be pleasant. “I’m not saying we should rule it out entirely just yet, but anything that involves contacting Cybertron is risky.” Not to mention difficult, since contacting Cybertron wasn’t a simple matter of pulling the planet up on the ship’s vidscreen. “What other options do we have?”

“There’s the Decepticon equivalent prison,” Drift said with a hint of distaste. “It’d be suicide to approach, but if we managed to drop him off there, I guarantee Prowl would never get his hands on him again. As a bonus, I actually know where it is.”

“But would they actually hold him, or would they rehabilitate him and let him go?”

“Neither,” Drift said evenly. “Overlord’s on the List. They’d call the DJD to get rid of their new problem.”

That drew Ratchet up short. “That’d be the same as killing him ourselves. Worse than.”

Drift didn’t flinch. “Killing him ourselves is still my preference, without involving the DJD, unless you’ve found another, permanent, solution.”

“There were a couple of possibilities I wanted to bring up,” Ratchet said, pulling out the datapad he’d been taking notes on. “Facilities that are relatively nearby, and might be adequate to hold him.”

Rodimus took it and looked it over. “These are all alien prisons. Can they even take care of a Decepticon in stasis?”

“Given the nature of a Phase Sixer, it might be a violation of the Tyrest Accord to hand him over to a non-Cybertronian holding facility,” Drift pointed out, scanning the list once Rodimus finished with it. “Even one normally authorized to hold Cybertronian prisoners.”

“We could still send inquiries — carefully worded ones — about their appointments while we look into the legalities.” An alien prison was their best bet for avoiding both Prowl and cold blooded murder. Ratchet wasn’t going to give up on the idea. “It’s not like we can go up to Ultra Magnus and ask him what the Accord says on the subject without him wanting to know why.”

“I have a copy of the Accord,” Drift offered; Ratchet failed to be surprised. “It’s a fairly long document though, and that’s not a segment I have annotated, so it’ll take a while to go through in its entirety.”

“Do I want to know why you have a copy of the Tyrest Accord?” Rodimus asked, teasing. 

“Decepticon commander,” Drift said simply. “Kup got me my current copy.”

“Nerd.”

“Jock.”

“Spar later,” Ratchet reminded them. “Although, if that sounds like a viable action plan to everyone, the meeting’s probably just about over.”

“Right. Alien prisons, it is.” Rodimus nodded decisively. “At least for the moment. We’ll send out some messages, do some research…”

Drift’s field flickered in otherwise well-controlled skepticism; Ratchet wasn’t sure Rodimus had caught it. “I’ll make copies and get them to you both, then.”

Rodimus’ expression fell a bit at the inclusion. “Goody.”

“Thanks, Drift,” Ratchet said with more sincerity, even though he knew most of the legal work was going to fall on him and Drift. Rodimus just didn’t have the attention span to sit and read page after page after page of dull, dry text. But if it meant they weren’t at a dead end, one where the only option was a dead Overlord, then Ratchet was willing to put in the joors, whatever Drift thought of their chances. “Shall I leave you to your posturing now?”

“Sure,” Drift said with a smile; Ratchet caught the fading relief in his gaze. “Firebug here’s obviously delusional.”

_ “Firebug!?” _ Rodimus screeched. “Oh, that is it! You are going down,  _ Dippy!” _

Ratchet got up and edged over to the door as the insults continued to fly back and forth, making his escape before fists started flying as well. Whatever they needed to work out between them, it was going to take more than a few laps around the lower level to blow off steam. It felt friendly, if competitive, though; not like the last few fights between them Ratchet had ~~caused~~ witnessed.

He wasn’t as desperate for a distraction as he’d thought he might be, but talking about Overlord was always somewhat stressful, and Ratchet decided to go through with his plan and return to Silverstorm’s repairs. It would help him settle and focus his processor, and put him in a better place to start reading though interminable legalese.

Ambulon was busy with Sunstreaker and Bob when Ratchet walked in, so he didn’t bother them and just returned to Silverstorm and started unwrapping him from the clingy, clear plastic. The next thing he needed to do was run the new wiring for the left arm, and replace the fuses and relays along the main conduit…

He lost track of time as he worked, but didn’t let himself sink so deep into the repair this time that he missed the chime of an incoming call.  _ “Yes?”  _ he answered.

_ “Mind meeting us in the medbay for a few kliks?” _ Drift’s voice came through loud and clear.  _ “Roddy’s the worse off,” _ he added smugly,  _ “but I’d rather not wait until First Aid is on duty to get patched this time.” _

Ratchet chuckled.  _ “Sure,”  _ he said, setting aside the next fuse for the moment.  _ “See you when you get here.”  _ He walked over to the office, where Ambulon was updating charts. “We’ve got a pair of idiots on the way in.”

“Goody,” Ambulon answered flatly. “Who did what this time?”

“Rodimus and Drift decided they had something to prove to each other. Care to take the captain while I deal with Drift?”

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

Ambulon followed him over to the door to wait for their patients while Ratchet suppressed any amusement he felt at the situation. It wouldn’t do for them to arrive and find anything but a disapproving frown on his face.

.

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	19. Chapter 19

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.

To both Ratchet and Drift’s disappointment, the additional burden of going through the Tyrest Accord in its  _ entirety  _ meant that Drift couldn’t finish writing his paper before the next book club meeting. Drift had been having fun doing the research, and he still had his annotated outline, but Ratchet had been looking forward to watching Rung’s optics pop out of their sockets when Drift turned in the finished paper like a homework assignment. He couldn’t argue that the Accord took precedent though — or that they were a nightmare to comprehend. At least Drift was still recharging okay; last time they’d slept together Ratchet had heard the speedster calling for someone, but he hadn’t woken.

“I’m beginning to have a whole new appreciation for Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet said as he reread the same paragraph for the fourth time without understanding a word of it. “How does he know what half this stuff means?”

“How can you interpret a medical research paper? Or Perceptor one of his universe-breaking equations?” Drift drawled sardonically. “It all comes down to practice.” He scrubbed his hands over his optics. “There’s a reason I was philosophy and lit, not law.”

“We’re equally disadvantaged then,” Ratchet sighed. They had just as many datapads spread out between them as if Drift had been working on his paper, and none of them were making things easier. “I keep having to stop and look things up, only to have to look up something else to understand the explanation, and even then I’m not completely sure what the article is trying to say.”

“Yeah.”

“It does kind of feel like being right back at the beginning of school,” Ratchet admitted. The difference was, then he’d cared about what he was trying to learn and wanted to understand all of it. Now he just needed one answer, but it was hidden so well he was starting to think he might not recognize it even if he was staring right at it. “Or being stuck in one of those unrelated required courses they made us take.”

“Can’t say I ever had  _ that _ pleasure,” Drift muttered, switching datapads to look something else up. Ratchet wasn’t sure if he was switching from the Tyrest Accord to a dictionary, or from a dictionary to something else.

“Your version of university skipped that garbage, did it? Smart of them.” Ratchet was unable to think of any instances where the extra classes he’d been forced to take had proven useful. “Why couldn’t they have at least insisted we take a basic law course instead of Cultural Fuel Additives And Frame Adornments?”

Drift snickered, mood momentarily lifted. “I think you just killed my processor.”

“That course about killed mine. I couldn’t forget the stuff fast enough.”

“I mean, I can see a use for the information,” Drift clarified, ignoring his datapads for a moment. “I just can’t see the use of having a full class on just that, instead of folding it into a more general modern cultural studies class.”

“Looking back, I’m pretty sure the curriculum was just a thin veneer for a bunch of Functionalist propaganda,” Ratchet said. He hadn’t been kidding about doing his best to forget the course, but he could recall some statements about optic colors he now recognized as complete slag. “Not something I was aware of at the time.”

“Now I’m really glad to have skipped it.”

“I’m glad you did, too.” Ratchet tossed down his datapad after a fifth attempt at the impenetrable paragraph. “I think I need to either take a break or switch to a different section.”

“I vote for a break.” Drift set his datapad down too. “Swerve’s?”

“Why don’t we just head to the library early?” There was still over a joor before book club was supposed to meet, but it would be a nice, quiet place to relax and think about something besides the Tyrest Accord for awhile.

“Sounds good.” Drift looked at the various Accord-related datapads spread out around them and sighed. “Let’s just stack these over by the sword rack. There’s no reason to put them completely away.”

“Not when we’re just going to have to break them all out again,” Ratchet agreed without enthusiasm. He gathered up the ones he’d been using and switched them into powersave before starting a pile. Drift followed suit.

The pile, once they were done, was distressingly tall.

As the door to Drift’s quarters closed and locked behind them, the swordsmech trotted to catch up to Ratchet and caught his hand with his own. “Hi,” Ratchet said, squeezing his fingers. “Suddenly I’m in a better mood already.”

“So am I.” Drift grinned. “Roddy says book club counts as another date. I haven’t quite figured out how to dissuade him.”

“It’s probably not worth the effort of convincing him otherwise.” Rodimus could be remarkably stubborn about little things like that. “Assuming you put any effort into it at all.”

“I really didn’t.” Drift tilted his head, looking at Ratchet. “Should I have?”

“No. If you want it to be a date, it’s a date — with lots of other people hanging around. Including Whirl.”

“And First Aid,” Drift pointed out with an EM flicker of amusement. “They’re a matched set still.”

“True.” Somehow. “I guess that makes it a double date.”

“That could be fun, though I’m sure Whirl would prefer to do an ex-Wreckers’ night out for a date.” Drift looked away, EM field turning pensive. “I need to find a few kliks to talk to him alone.”

“About an ex-Wreckers’ night?”

“About changing my optics.” He squeezed Ratchet’s hand, walking a little closer. “Rung wants me to talk to some of the people whose opinions are important to me so I stop imagining their reactions, for better or worse. Mostly worse.”

“That… is probably a good idea,” Ratchet said, thinking about the way Drift sometimes beat himself up emotionally over things he really didn’t need to. “You remember what I said, right?”

“What matters to you is that I’m comfortable with them,” Drift repeated Ratchet’s words almost verbatim. “Which I still appreciate.”

“And I still mean it.” Ratchet smiled. “If Whirl’s on that short list, does that mean Perceptor is too?”

“Perceptor, Rodimus,” Drift confirmed. “Cyclonus. Ultra Magnus… You. I know you think my comfort is most important, but what would you think of me with red optics?”

“I think I’d get used to them quickly,” Ratchet said honestly. “Any change or mod is remarkable just for being different at first, but knowing you the way I do now, I doubt it would feel strange for long.”

“You wouldn’t find them scary?”

“Nope.” Red optics weren’t something Ratchet automatically associated with “enemy” or “danger” the way some Autobots did. “Now, if you got yourself reframed as a shuttle or something equally massive, then I might feel a little nervous.”

“Oh?” Drift’s field shifted from pensive to curious. “Why’s that?”

“Because mechs who tower over me make me a little nervous,” Ratchet said bluntly. “Some of the worst close encounters I’ve had were with very large Decepticons, and have you ever tried to do repairs on a delirious mech four times your mass? It’s not a fun time.” The Matrix had made Optimus rather difficult to sedate sometimes.

“As to the first, I’ve been there too, but I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of the second.” Drift squeezed Ratchet’s hand comfortingly. “Don’t worry. I’ve no plans to reframe — larger or smaller. Just considering a cosmetic tweak.”

“One that would look good on you if you decide to go ahead with it.” Ratchet “casually” brushed one of the red sections of his own armor and winked at Drift. “It is a good color, after all.”

Drift gave him a shy smile. “Thanks Ratchet. That means a lot to me.”

The library was still empty when they arrived. Ratchet wasn’t surprised. Rung was the librarian, but between his official patients and ambushing those who pretended they weren’t his patients, he was too busy to sit in here all cycle. Not that it needed much babysitting. Instead of being a lend-and-return library like those Ratchet had been familiar with before the war, this was a (more Decepticon-like, Ratchet thought, after having seen the way their online university worked) repository for those things mechs had painstakingly saved, which could be downloaded from so that mechs could have their own copies for as long as they wished. Rung’s rationale for that had been twofold: he didn’t want to entrust something as precious as a singular copy of data to even the most trustworthy of mechs on the ship, since if it was lost or corrupted it would likely be gone from the universe forever, and secondly, he felt the more copies of something were made, the more likely its long-term survival was.

Accordingly, Ratchet knew Rung and Smokescreen had squirrelled away several backups of everything that was donated. Whirl’s copy of the  _ Clockwork Criminal _ was no longer the only one in existence; there were at  _ least _ six or seven, depending on whether Smokescreen had kept his personal copy.

Given the nature of the library, all that was  _ really _ needed for it to function was a terminal to access and download the files from the ship’s computer. Technically, this could be done by anyone, anywhere on the ship, just by using their comsuites, since the library was a public database. But Rung and Smokescreen had both wanted to make it a social area, a sort of quiet alternative to Swerve’s, and they were making good headway. At the last book club meeting there had only been a few chairs in a rough circle; now those chairs were still there, but a table and some shelves had been added, and the walls were a greenish-blue that was both soothing and bright. The chairs had been painted a darker, almost black, blue, while the table and the shelves were both still the brownish orange most of the furniture on the ship was. Ratchet didn’t see the paint containers, but he supposed Rung knew better than to leave something like that out in an unlocked, public room.

Looking around interestedly, Drift wandered further into the room. This was, Ratchet realized, the first time he’d been in here. There wasn’t much to look at yet, however, despite the improvements. It was still a work in progress.

Someone had left a stack of datapads on one of the shelves and Drift flipped through them. “For reading here?” he guessed.

“Probably. I know for a fact there will eventually be more comfortable seating options for lounging, so maybe leaving them out is a bid to entice people to stay” Ratchet said, trying to imagine where the beanbags would fit in the space. “Even if that’s not what they were thinking, it might be a good way to recommend things. Just leave things out on communal pads where they’re easy to pick up, without worrying about storage space on personal devices.”

Drift nodded, still flipping through them. “It’ll be interesting to see this place when they’re done. Free access to information. Gleam would be happy to see it.” He sounded wistful, but it didn’t last long. “What’s this?” He activated one of the datapads, turning the screensaver — a list of documents contained on it — into a true table of contents. “ _ Covenant of Primus, _ second Primalist edition? I wonder who donated this.”

“You could ask Rung. Some of the donors have asked to remain anonymous, while others like the idea of being a known contributor.” Whirl in particular had made a big deal about being one of the first mechs to add his personal stash to the new library, bragging that now, thanks to him, everyone else had a chance to become as “cultured” as he was. “Tailgate was sad he didn’t have anything he could donate.”

“There’s only so far a library like this will grow from pre-war contributions,” Drift mused, scrolling through the bookfile. “At some point we’ll have to begin creating things again.”

“You would absolutely make his day if you told him to write something,” Ratchet said. “He might even manage to finish a story before getting distracted by the next shiny idea.” Tailgate was remarkably similar to Rodimus when it came to enthusiasm and attention spans for new projects. 

“He’ll settle on something eventually,” Drift said confidently. “He has time.”

“I suppose. He does have a lot of learning and experimenting with things to catch up on.”

“Well, now’s the time for it, isn’t it?” Drift pulled two of the chairs over to the table. Once they were set up next to each other, he divested himself of his swords, laying them on the table within reach and sat down. “If he’d crawled out of his crevasse just a few quartexes earlier than he did, he wouldn’t have been given time, or a choice.”

“True.” Ratchet took up the other chair, shifting a bit until he found a comfortable position. “So what do you think of the place so far?”

“It’s nice.” Drift laughed softly at Ratchet’s flicker of surprise. “I know better than to apply my own beliefs about color to things it’s not meant to apply to. Besides, every color has both positive and negative connotations. Red is new beginnings, new life, conviction, but it’s also stubbornness and anger. Blue is death, and vengeance, but also justice and truth.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ratchet blustered, completely failing to hide that he  _ had  _ been wondering what Drift thought of the color choice, not just the general layout.

“Of course not. I apologize,” Drift teased. He made a show of examining the room again. “It’s still nice. Rung and Smokescreen are putting a lot of work in for it, and it shows.”

“And they’re not done yet. Ultra Magnus isn’t the only one writing up a supply list for when we get to Hedonia,” Ratchet recovered. “I saw them hashing out things they want to look for at Swerve’s a few shifts ago.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for shopping, at least.” Drift went back to skimming the  _ Covenant, _ but obviously wasn’t letting himself get too absorbed. “Unless something happens, the current plan is to spend two full cycles there and let everyone off in cycle long shifts.” 

“Who’s putting together those shifts?” 

“Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, and I are all going to be on different shifts.” He scrolled down to the next page. “Ultra Magnus wants to ask volunteers to stay behind for a skeleton crew, but I think Roddy wants to pass around a randomizer to assign everyone their times.”

“I don’t suppose I could put in for a specific time slot?” Ratchet asked, watching Drift instead of picking something to read himself. It was nice not to be staring at a datapad for a change, and there was something about watching Drift read that was just… relaxing. “Maybe we could do something together.”

Drift’s field blushed with shy pleasure. “I can see the merits of both strategies,” he said. “Roddy mostly wants to make sure everyone gets a turn on the surface, but we should probably put the medbay on a schedule like the bridge officers, so someone’s up here the whole time…” He reached out and put his hand on the table, offering. Ratchet took Drift’s hand, almost automatically. “I’d like spending the time with you.”

“Whatever system you wind up going with to assign shifts, I think it should accommodate people who want to spend time together. There are other couples and groups of friends who would enjoy the leave a lot more if they can spend it with each other.”

“Yeah… I’ll bring it up to both of them.”

They sat together like that for a while, holding hands while Drift read. Ratchet eventually did pull out his copy of  _ The Spear of Dreams _ and started skimming through parts of it so they’d be fresh in his processor when it was time for discussion. It wouldn’t be too much longer before the others began arriving… 

As it turned out, Smokescreen showed up first. “Hey! I thought the place would still be empty.” He didn’t wave in greeting, but only because his hands were full. “One of you mind helping with this?”

Drift stood immediately, leaving his borrowed datapad on the table. “More mystery treats from Skids?”

“Yup! Along with some recognizable favorites,” Smokescreen said with a rattle of one of the boxes he was holding. “Gotta have rust sticks.”

“Really?” Drift took that box along with several others so Smokescreen didn’t have to juggle them. “I don’t remember when the last time I had rust sticks was.”

“Try not to eat them all before anyone else even gets here,” Smokescreen joked. “They’re hard to stop eating once you start.”

“And not healthy to eat too many of at once,” Ratchet chimed in, though he had every intention of getting his share of the treats himself.

“Fusspot,” Drift shot in Ratchet’s direction, before opening the box to get a look at the treats inside.

“I am not a fusspot,” Ratchet said, and proceeded to prove it by  _ not  _ telling Drift not to steal any sticks from the box. Given what he knew about Drift, and having seen him do it once, Ratchet was never going to bet  _ against _ him filching whatever fuel he got his hands on. Nor was he interested in stopping him. “Thanks for arranging this,” he said to Smokescreen instead.

“Hey, if there’s one thing about book clubs I learned while on Earth, it’s that wine and cookies are not optional. Besides,” he continued, pulling out the plates, cubes, and the promised mild engex, “Rung did the hard part.”

“I heard about that,” Drift piped up, already munching on a piece of candy consisting of more sweetening elements than fuel. “Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord does not throw tantrums, but…” He grinned. “Rung’s name is now next to mine on his watch list.”

“Wow.” That was not an inconsiderable demotion of esteem. Then again, Rung was probably used to it, given everyone’s generally low opinion of psychiatrists. “I’m glad he was willing to do that for us, because I agree — this makes everything much nicer.” Ratchet went ahead and poured himself a cube of the engex.

“We’re going to get swamped as soon as mechs get wind of the free snacks.” Drift blithely piled a plate with said snacks, not just the rust sticks but also with the others Smokescreen was arranging on the tray — with little regard for what flavors they probably were, as usual. 

“That why you’re here?” Smokescreen asked, pointedly, but amused.

“Of course!” Drift lied. Ratchet, who knew better, hid a smile behind a sip.

Rung arrived right as they finished arranging everything on and around the table. “Hello,” he said, claiming the empty chair on Drift’s other side. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

“Thank you for having me,” Drift responded politely. “This is great.”

“You enjoyed the book then?” Rung smiled. “I hope you enjoy the discussion as well.”

“It was enjoyable last time,” Ratchet said. “Even if what I’m used to dissecting like that are journal articles and other professional publications for peer review.”

“As long as you’re not reviewer number two,” Drift teased, which prompted a snicker from Ratchet, then turned back to Rung while leaning against Ratchet to make himself comfortable. “So what is the format for this? Public forum debate, turncoat style, parliamentary style, Questioner-Defender format, or something I’m not familiar with?”

Ratchet snickered again at the startled look on Rung’s face. “Nothing so formal as any of those, at least not to start. We begin by simply going around the circle and expressing what we liked or disliked about the book, then bring up points of discussion and invite differing opinions,” Rung said after a moment to get over his surprise. “I suppose it most closely resembles public forum debate with a moderator.”

“Careful, Dippy,” Whirl’s voice crowed from the door. “Your inner geek is showing.”

“Samurai geek,” Drift corrected automatically at the same time First Aid rushed to say, “Sorry we’re late!”

“You’re not late,” Ratchet assured him, gesturing for the other medic to take the empty seat beside him. “We were just early.”

“If our geekiness offends you,” Smokescreen heckled as Whirl and First Aid pushed their chairs close together so they could lean on each other the same way Drift and Ratchet were doing, “I’m sure I could convince Ultra Magnus to throw his backing behind a chess club.”

That netted him a round of blank looks from those who either hadn’t been to Earth, or hadn’t paid that much close attention to the natives while there.

“Try and stuff me into a storage crate and I’ll stab you,” Drift announced in the resulting silence.

“Pfft,” Whirl dismissed the threat, but Ratchet saw him calculating just how far away Drift had left his swords.

“Is that something he’s tried to do before?” Ratchet asked, bemused. 

“And if I have?” 

“Define ‘tried’.”

“Perhaps,” Rung interjected before things could get any more out of hand (or pincer), “we could leave that for now and begin talking about the book since we’re all here?”

_ “I _ liked the book,” Smokescreen said ahead of either Drift or Whirl. “I’ve read it before, but both then and now, I found it lightsparked and exciting, and the worldbuilding is definitely robust enough to support a series. I’m not sure I’ll re-read the whole series, but I’d recommend it to anyone interested in any sort of fantasy adventure story.”

“My feelings on it are similar,” Rung said from beside Smokescreen, indicating which way around the circle they were going. “Of course, I did recommend it for everyone to read, so I doubt that surprises anyone. Reading it again, I was reminded how well the author balances that excitement and action with meaningful, introspective moments.”

Ratchet saw a second datapad had appeared in front of Drift while he hadn’t been paying attention, and a quick check revealed he’d pulled up his annotated outline. “Um,” he hesitated, suddenly a bit nervous, then forged on, “ _ The Spear of Dreams _ was pretty clearly an expanded and more in-depth narrative version of Cartography’s essay on the nature of dreams, as recounted in the modern version of  _ Meditations on First Philosophy. _ The spear itself is a physical manifestation of the symbolic spear that appears in that essay, which I found extremely useful for translating the essay into a story.”

Whirl made a snoring sound, and First Aid hit him lightly. “Be nice. Or he’ll snore through your turn.”

“Fine,” Whirl huffed, though before Ratchet could finish smothering his glee over the shock on both Rung and Smokescreen’s faces and take his turn, he stage-whispered,  _ “Geeeeeeeeeeeeek.” _

Ratchet laid a hand on Drift’s wrist as the swordsmech glared over his notes at Whirl. First Aid helpfully swatted the rotary, who fortunately fell silent this time. “I can’t say I noticed a great deal of symbolism myself,” he said, segueing into his assessment of the book. “What caught my attention, or more accurately, distracted it, was the way a lot of attention was given to certain aspects of the story, but not to others. I don’t know if the things the author chose to focus on were genre conventions or tied into a deeper message or what, but they didn’t line up with the things that were interesting to me. I’m torn between reading the next story to see if any of the answers are there or just stopping at this one if they follow in this same style.”

“Let me guess, one of the things you had trouble with was the unrealistic injuries?” Ratchet nodded, feeling a sort of satisfaction that First Aid had noticed the same shortcoming. “Maybe it’s because we just read  _ Clockwork Criminal  _ with all its grit and realistic violence, but while I did like some parts of this story, I kept getting jolted in places where the characters were doing things that should have been physically impossible. I get suspension of disbelief, and what little repairwork was described was accurate, but…” He shrugged, masked face frowning slightly. “There wasn’t enough of it. There wasn’t adequate time or medical care for some of the injuries the characters sustained for them to carry on the way they did afterwards, and it interfered with my overall enjoyment of the book.”

“Most likely a failing of the genre,” Rung said diplomatically, while Drift carefully drew something in a blank document on his datapad, then showed it to Whirl, who cackled. “There aren’t very many fantasy adventure novels that are also medically accurate.”

“Military sci-fi often was,” Drift said while Smokescreen shot him a questioning look; the swordsmech ignored him, declining to show his message to Whirl off to the rest of the table. “It was also often speculative, describing procedures that didn’t exist, but most attempted to make sure their science was sound.”

“I thought it was cool,” Whirl put in. “I’d read the others.”

“Well, we do have the rest of the series here,” Rung said, indicating the terminal. “For the moment, since the topic has already come up, why don’t we talk about realism in the story a bit more. Were there other elements that stood out as unrealistic?”

“The depiction of Predacons and other beastformers as less intelligent and more primitive than the vehicle-alt characters,” Drift said absently, without hesitation.

“Agreed, though their physical strength and ferocity didn’t seem overly exaggerated — for the most part,” Ratchet said. “Afterkill was a bit unrealistically overpowered, but as one of the primary antagonists, I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Being understandable doesn’t make it forgivable,” First Aid countered. “Not on its own, anyway. Setting the story in a fantasy world means you can make up unrealistic rules, but they still need to be internally consistent.”

“But they don’t need to be fully explained or laid out for the reader, especially all at the front of a series,” Smokescreen said, skipping over Whirl. “Too much exposition would slow the pacing of the story.”

“Ex- _ cuse  _ you,” Whirl snapped his pincers at Smokescreen.

“Rudeness,” Drift agreed with a glare at the red and blue mech, his “fight” with his fellow ex-Wrecker seemingly entirely forgotten. White armor bristled in offense. “Whirl’s turn!”

“Quite right,” Rung put in, holding his hands out placatingly. “We’re not going to stick to strict turn order the whole meeting, but right now it serves a purpose: everyone gets a chance to speak.”

“Thank you,” Whirl said with grossly exaggerated primness. “Joke’s on you though, because I don’t have anything to say.”

“Yes you do,” First Aid prompted with an elbow nudge. “Remember?”

“Eh, they already know it.”

“Whether we do or not, we’d like to hear what you have to say,” Rung encouraged. “Besides, none of us are all-knowing.”

“Yeah. Go for it, Whirl,” Smokescreen said, offering an embarrassed flicker of his EM field in lieu of an apology. “Wow us.”

Whirl fidgeted for a moment, but when everyone continued to wait patiently he finally said, “The logistics weren’t any more realistic than the medicine. Not for the time the story took place over. It takes longer than  _ that  _ to move tons of supplies through narrow, treacherous trade routes.”

“I noticed that too,” Drift and Ratchet said simultaneously, then looked at each other with a grin.

“I didn’t.” Smokescreen pulled out his datapad to flip through the novel’s text. “I mean, you’re  _ right, _ but I didn’t know anything about logistics when I first read it, so it kind of slid under my radar on rereading.”

“So between travel time and recovery time, the story isn’t realistic in terms of timeflow overall?” Rung said, effectively summarizing the point. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“Probably just because of when it was written,” Drift said. “We all notice these things — how long it takes supplies to arrive, how long it takes to get injured soldiers back on their feet, etc. — now because our survival has depended on it, but what need would a pre-war, non-military writer have had to even know those things? The majority of his audience weren’t medics or members of the military. Civilians just wanted an adventure romp where the protagonist triumphs heroically over the forces of darkness.”

“I just assumed ignorance on the part of the author,” Ratchet said. “Drift’s right, it doesn’t ultimately matter to the story, so it wouldn’t have been worth researching to get all the details right. Or even possible, depending on when exactly it was written and what sort of connections the author had.”

“Nothing wrong with an adventure romp,” Whirl defended. 

“I thought it might have been because the author was trying to keep the story going without getting the plot bogged down in details,” First Aid half-agreed, unbothered by Whirl jumping ahead of him. “We all felt the lack of those details, true, but spending so much narrative time on a basically uneventful part of the journey — or worse, inserting pointless encounters into the story — would have made it pointlessly long.”

“And, again,” Smokescreen reiterated his earlier point, “it’s the first in a series. Maybe it’s something he gets better at as the books go on. It could just be a lack of practice.”

“All very good hypotheses,” Rung said, pulling up a page on his datapad and turning it around to show the author bio tucked away at the end of the book. Ratchet hadn’t bothered reading it, but he was sure Drift had. “I’m going to guess the answer is a combination of most of those factors, with the biggest contributors being the genre and intended audience. It sounds like some of you would consider yourselves outside that demographic.”

“Yes,” Ratchet said readily. “I would have been outside it even back when it was first published.”

“Ditto,” Drift said, then added, “I liked the philosophical angle, but fantasy violence wasn’t something that caught my interest, even before the war.”

“I love fantasy violence!” Whirl’s pincers clacked together — threatening or just excited, Ratchet wasn’t one hundred percent sure. 

“I like it too,” Smokescreen said, nodding along with Whirl. “I’m not as bothered by inconsistencies in the details when the story is entertaining. I’m curious about that philosophical angle you mentioned though,” he turned to Drift. “Because if it’s there, it went over my head entirely.”

“It’s one of Cartography’s essays,” Drift opened the relevant file on his datapad and slid it across the table so Smokescreen could see it. “In it he debates with himself, trying to define the nature of dreams. He discusses goals, dreams, and three different kinds of dreams we experience during powersave, going through them as a sort of inner journey. As he approaches his conclusions, he eventually makes the claim that all dreams serve the purpose of allowing us to confront, battle, and conquer the darkest parts of our sparks. One of his primary metaphors for this is a spear, and while reading  _ The Spear of Dreams _ I could clearly see how the nature of the protagonist’s conflicts mirrored each of Cartography’s dream types, and the pacing of the novel peaks just before each of Cartography’s symbolic battles, then slows before encountering the conflict associated with the next dream type.”

Smokescreen just gaped at him, stunned. Rung wasn’t looking much better, his usual calm expression replaced by a (for him) incredulous stare. 

First Aid was the first to think of anything to say in response to that bombshell. “What if Cartography’s essay wasn’t written first?”

“It was,” Whirl said confidently. 

_ “You’ve  _ read Cartography?” Ratchet couldn’t help asking, but Whirl just cackled.

“Of course not! He’s too heavy for my spindly legs. But I know him,” he said, jabbing a claw in Drift’s direction, “and Dippy would have checked that.”

“Cartography is one of the foundational writers for non-religious philosophy,” Drift clarified. “He predates Tailgate and Cyclonus’ lifetimes. To be clear: he didn’t reject the idea of the divine, but he made a point of constructing his arguments so that they didn’t depend on referencing religious texts and beliefs.” He smirked at Whirl. “And your spindly legs are more than strong enough. Or should I tell them about—”

“Nope! Shut up! You promised!”

“So I did.” Drift’s smirk didn’t go away.

“Aww.” First Aid pouted. “Now I’m curious.”

Whirl’s optic flicked over to Ratchet and Drift, who were both watching him interestedly (Smokescreen and Rung were still staring at Drift). “Eh.” He shrugged. “I’ll tell you later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” First Aid grinned happily, then also switched his gaze back to Drift. “Non-religious philosophy, huh? I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”

“I’m into all sorts of philosophy,” Drift said, leaning harder against Ratchet as though looking for support or comfort. “Different religions too. I’ve studied it a lot. Even dabbled in psych. I got into it originally to tell… someone who was very religious just how much slag he was spouting.”

“Which is now my job,” Ratchet joked, wrapping an arm around Drift. “The problem is he learned the stuff really well and now he uses all that knowledge to argue for the other side.”

“Which only means you know how I felt back then,” Drift teased. “Karma.”

“Okay, you see this right here?” Smokescreen finally said, bringing a fist to his forehead before rapidly spreading his fingers. “Mind. Blown.”

“Dippy’s a geek,” Whirl announced. “He’s always been a geek. What’s the big deal?”

“I never  _ knew  _ he was a geek,” Smokescreen said, but despite the derogatory word he was looking at Drift with a new respect. “That’s pretty amazing.”

Ratchet felt Drift’s field pull in against his plating, only able to detect his lover’s faint embarrassment because they were physically touching. “It’s not so special,” he said demurely. 

“It’s not so common; among warriors especially,” Smokescreen said, then, with a somewhat embarrassed smile, added, “or among Decepticons, as the common understanding goes.”

Ratchet felt Drift freeze, indecision skittering along his reined in EM field.

“It’s dangerous to judge based on stereotypes.” At last, Rung seemed to have gotten his wits back about him. “I think we all may have been guilty of underestimating you, Drift, and for that I apologize.” 

“Me too,” Smokescreen said, obviously meaning it.

_ “I  _ didn’t underestimate anyone,” Whirl bragged.

“No matter how much I tried to get you to,” Drift said fondly, unfreezing. “And you’re right,” he took a deep breath as he turned back to Smokescreen, “this isn’t common among Decepticons…” He hesitated just a moment longer, squeezing Ratchet’s hand almost imperceptionally. “Anymore.”

“‘Anymore’?”

“There were lots of Decepticons who studied philosophy?” First Aid asked, visibly puzzling through the thought. “Because of Megatron’s writings?”

“Yes,” Drift answered carefully. “Not just philosophy, though. The Decepticons ran poetry clubs as recruitment centers, and a lot of mechs picked a subject to study when they joined up. It was one of the ways they rebelled against the caste system.”

Opening up about this to others wasn’t easy for him. Ratchet could feel it in the way Drift held his frame and the fleeting flares of emotion in his field, and he was carefully avoiding slipping into the present tense the way he occasionally did with Ratchet, but he wasn’t backing down either.  _ “Let me know if you want me to drag the discussion back around to the book,”  _ he offered privately, just in case.

_ “In a klik. I can… I want to see how they react. Then,” _ the waver Ratchet heard in his transmission wasn’t visibly evident,  _ “please do.” _

“Education as rebellion. That’s really smart, pun not intended,” Smokescreen said. 

“An admirable goal indeed,” Rung said, adjusting his glasses thoughtfully. “Though it can’t have been easy to do, given the restrictions of the caste system in question.”

“I thought the book we just read was what was in question,” Ratchet interrupted. “As mindblowing a discovery as this is, we’re getting a little off-topic.”

“I liked the part with the battle against those harpy-formers,” Whirl announced brashly, jumping on board with the change of subject. “It wasn’t very realistic,” he sniped, pinching First Aid’s arm gently, “but it really did feel like flying.”

“I wouldn’t know about realistic flight,” Ratchet said wryly, spinning a tire for emphasis, “but that was one of the more engaging parts of the story. The descriptions were a lot more…” 

“Descriptive?” Whirl snarked.

“Varied,” Ratchet finished. “In terms of which senses they invoked.”

“The info page doesn’t say anything about the editor except his name,” Drift also leapt back onto the topic of the story and away from the Decepticons, “but ‘Starlight’ sounds like it might be a flyer’s name.”

“If he was, I’m sure he helped with that section,” First Aid said. “I was really able to imagine myself flying instead of being carried in a transport as I read it.”

“It was one of the more difficult battles too, one of the only ones that had me wondering how he was going to make it through.” Given that the book was the start of a series, Ratchet hadn’t really expected the main character to die, and the harpy-formers had been more in the middle of the story than the end, but the stakes had felt real nonetheless… right up until the aftermath. “Of course, that made his recovery from that particular battle the hardest to believe in the whole thing as well.”

“We get it,” Smokescreen laughed. “Ratchet wants medical realism!”

“I’m sorry, it’s only been my job my entire life!”

“And mine,” First Aid said. “It’s distracting when things don’t line up with the way you know they should work. How am I supposed to know whether I should be worried for a character’s life if I can’t tell how badly hurt he is in the context of the story?”

“That,” Ratchet said emphatically. “I might not keep a journal as I read outlining my predictions and theories for what I thought was going to happen next, but I still make those predictions and formulate questions, and it’s hard to do that when the story doesn’t provide consistent benchmarks for expectations.”

“That's a very good point,” Rung interrupted, taking control of the conversation before anyone else could jump in. “And not every genre will appeal to everyone. To that end, who’s interested in hearing about our next book?”

“We have one already?” Ratchet had forgotten who was supposed to choose it, besides  _ not him.  _ “What is it?”

_ “Gambler’s Fallacy,” _ Smokescreen answered, smile growing wider. “I picked it. I’ve been saving it for… a while.” For the entire war, probably, like Whirl had.

Ratchet gave him a suspicious look. “I’m not going to like it, am I?”

“Oh, that’s not a fair question!” First Aid seemed much more cheerful (as usual) about the prospective book. “What genre is it?”

“I’ll let the book speak for itself,” Smokescreen answered, pinging them the filename and directory details so they could find and download it from the library. 

Drift pulled it up and choked on his own engine.

Concerned, Ratchet cautiously brought it up on his own datapad and looked at the summary blurb. 

> _Flutter didn’t expect anything special to happen. He was just going out with a few friends to celebrate his coming-of-age. He certainly didn’t expect to meet the suave and mysterious gambler Zodiac. For his part, Zodiac had a good reason not to be looking for romance, but he is unable to resist this lost spark. The past he’s been running from is about to catch up with him though. A high stakes tale of love, lust, and danger, set in Praxus’ most prestigious casino, the Glitterdust Hotel and Lounge. Will Flutter and Zodiac consummate their attraction, or fall victim to… the **Gambler’s Fallacy!**_

_  
_

A high pitched, happy squeal broke Ratchet out of his disbelief. First Aid was practically vibrating in his chair. “That sounds like so much fun!”

“And,” Smokescreen added smugly, as Whirl’s louder, more powerful helicopter engine echoed Drift’s,  _ “much _ more realistic than the fantasy novel.” He smirked right at Ratchet. “Promise.”

“Uh huh.” Ratchet arched a brow ridge at him. “I’ve read some pretty unrealistic porn too, you know.”

Drift snickered.

“And you all thought  _ my _ book would be trashy!” Whirl jabbed a claw toward the table’s occupants as a whole. “Don’t lie! You did! But  _ Smokescreen,” _ he tilted his head and adjusted the lenses in his optic to approximate a scandalized expression, “I am shocked by this excuse for a novel!” Despite his words, he sounded outright gleeful.

“I promise,” Smokescreen repeated, ignoring Whirl’s cackling. “Absolutely everything in this book will be one-hundred percent  _ medically accurate.” _

“We’ll see about that,” Ratchet said, unable to let the challenge go. If he had to read this monstrosity, at least it would give him something to focus on besides what would undoubtedly be an abundance of purple prose and lurid dialogue. “Though I fail to see how that’s a better genre than fantasy.”

“It’s not about being objectively better, it’s about being subjectively better for different audiences,” Rung said fairly. “And this sort of literature has quite a wide audience.”

“I’m willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.” Drift nudged Ratchet’s shoulder with his helm crest. “It’s not like our opinions of Smokescreen’s tastes can get any lower, right?”

“Hey!”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to read it, just that I’m not going to like it,” Ratchet grumbled. Eventually it would be his turn to pick and he would have his chance for revenge. He finished off the cube of engex in his hand and poured another. “But that’s for next time. There’s still a lot more to say about  _ The Spear of Dreams.” _

“Quite right.” Rung adjusted his glasses and grabbed another energon cookie for himself. “What did you all think was the silliest thing to happen in the story?”

Once again going around the circle in turns, they each revealed what they thought was the silliest thing in the story (Ratchet made a point of his choice  _ not  _ being related to unrealistic medicine, but rather a personal exchange where two friends he felt should have known each other better misunderstood one another), then the most memorable, and the most important. It was interesting to see which parts of the story had best caught each mech’s attention, and what they each felt was significant.

The conversation veered off topic a few more times, aided by the engex and, to a degree, the casual, crass camaraderie between Drift and Whirl. It was a different dynamic from their last book club meeting, and it was intriguing to watch it play out. Rung never let it get too out of hand though, performing his self-described role as moderator admirably.

Whirl and First Aid left first, citing a meeting with the Happy Weasels and Rewind to get some posters made now that they’d finalized their team symbol. Smokescreen and Drift were sniping at each other while they cleaned up the treats, dishes, and empty boxes, and if some of the treats that couldn’t be repacked and sent to Swerve’s ended up in Drift’s subspace… well, Ratchet couldn’t be sure, because if he did pocket any this time, he did it so smoothly even someone watching for it couldn’t see.

Originally being a storage room, the door to the library didn’t have an entry chime, so all four of them looked up when someone knocked. 

“Hi!” Tailgate bounced into the room while Cyclonus followed more sedately.

“Hi,” Ratchet said, looking down at the minibot where he stopped, then up at Cyclonus. “Were you looking for one of us, or just here for the library?”

“A bit of both, I imagine,” Rung said with a friendly smile. “Cyclonus expressed an interest in joining the club.”

Cyclonus inclined his head seriously in confirmation. 

“Yep!” Tailgate affirmed brightly. “We came to pick up the book for the next meeting.”

Ah. Of course. Because Tailgate wanted to do all the things Cyclonus did, whether Cyclonus wanted him there or not. Ratchet chuckled. “You sure got lucky with which book it is.”

“There’s no need to be so sarcastic,” Rung admonished.

“Sarcasm seems like a perfectly legitimate response,” Drift defended while Smokescreen produced a pair of datapads and loaded the book up on them from the terminal. “Better than some of the other alternatives.”

“Shoosh. Of anyone on this ship, you two have the least moral ground to stand on when it comes to schmoop.” Smokescreen grinned, passing over the two datapads. “Here.”

“Thanks!” Tailgate said brightly, while Cyclonus just nodded with solemn gratitude. “I can’t wait to start reading it! What’s ‘schmoop’?” he asked, head tilted curiously. “Is it good?”

“Depends who you ask,” Ratchet said without any lessening of sarcasm. “And for the record, Chromedome and Rewind are just as bad.”

“Chromedome and Rewind are the schmoopiest,” Drift confirmed.

“It’s a relatively modern slang term,” Rung explained patiently, giving them an arch, almost scolding look, “for something sweetly romantic or cute, usually to the degree of being maudlin. Having not read the book, I can’t vouch for it being an accurate descriptor of the story.”

Cyclonus didn’t exactly look pleased, but he accepted the datapad readily. “I suppose in the interest of broadening cultural horizons…” 

“And getting to know our fellow club members,” Rung said with a smile. “Everyone looks at a novel differently, so talking about it afterward helps us learn, both about the story and about each others’ perspectives. Making a suggestion is very brave act, admitting to others that a specific book was important enough to hang on to for four million vorns.”

“Don’t say that,” Smokescreen whined, field flushing with embarrassment.

But it was a good point, and Ratchet couldn’t help but feel Rung was talking primarily to him and Drift. He had realized how vulnerable it had probably made Whirl to open up about his gritty and gratuitous detective story. It wasn’t that the story itself had been out of character for Whirl, but admitting he’d saved it for that long… Ratchet considered  _ Gambler’s Fallacy _ in that light. Smokescreen was acting like he’d chosen it to annoy everyone, but what did it say about him that he’d saved what was undoubtedly softcore porn through the entire war? Ratchet wasn’t sure he’d have pegged Smokescreen as the type.

“Still sounds fun,” Tailgate said, oblivious.

“It’ll be an experience, anyway,” Ratchet said, feeling a bit more curious about the upcoming discussion than he had a few kliks ago. He still wasn’t looking forward to reading the book itself, but given the people and personalities who would be there to weigh in on the subject matter, perhaps it would turn out to be even more interesting and, dare he say, fun than their previous meetings. “I look forward to seeing you both there.”

“We will be there,” Cyclonus intoned, nodding his head.

“Do you mind if I look around?” Tailgate asked, already looking around the mostly empty room with interest. “Are those to take with us or just for reading here?” He pointed to the stack of datapads on the shelf.

“These are just for here,” Rung answered, “but you can download anything you want.”

“Speaking of,” Drift held up the datapad he’d found before the meeting, “I did find something earlier. Mind showing me how the terminal works?”

“Of course. Tailgate, why don’t you watch so you’ll be able to use it too,” Rung offered, and together they all went over to the terminal so he could demonstrate how to search for specific files, get recommendations, and connect different devices for downloading copies. Ratchet saw Cyclonus surreptitiously watching, though he doubted the dour mech needed the instruction.

“I didn’t realize Tailgate was going to be joining us too,” Smokescreen said, sidling up to Ratchet. “I hope it’s not too much for him.”

“Regretting your tastes now that you know who you’re exposing them to?” Ratchet smirked at Smokescreen’s defiant grin. “He’ll be fine. He’s been with this crew long enough to have picked up any of the basics he didn’t already come online with, and he’s not shy about asking questions when he doesn’t understand something.” Whirl might have been avoiding sending Tailgate his trashy stream-of-consciousness pings, but most of the mechs on the ship were nothing but bad influences.

“That’s kind of what I’m afraid of,” Smokescreen said cheerfully. “And I’m not sure if it’s the questions or the answers I should be more scared of.”

“I think it’s refreshing,” Ratchet said, though he’d have been more worried if he didn’t know Tailgate would bring any really wild stories to the next meeting where he could be set straight. “If I catch anyone taking the opportunity to use this to play jokes on him though, I’ll put them on rivet duty for a decacycle.”

“Ooo… Ratchet’s getting real. Threatening punishment duty and everything.” Smokescreen snickered. “Everyone watch out.”

“Cool!” Tailgate exclaimed as Rung finished up his explanation, before Ratchet could react. “This looks like fun.”

“I hope mechs think so,” Rung answered, wistfully. “Until then, Drift, could I—”

“Nope.” The swordmech sidestepped the obvious request to talk. “I’m going to steal Cyclonus for a few kliks, then I’ve got third-in-command stuff to do.”

Rung frowned slightly, but relented. “Another time. Ratchet? Would you like to come to Swerve’s with me? I’ll buy.”

That was a trap and Ratchet knew it. The problem was, unlike Drift, who had taken his escape and was not quite running with it toward the door without so much as a backward glance, he couldn’t think of a graceful way out of it. His silence drew out to the point the conclusion was already foregone, then he sighed. “Sure.”

“Good luck, Ratch,” Smokescreen chuckled, patting his shoulder before leaving him to his fate. “Come on, little guy,” he said to Tailgate, distracting him from trying to follow Drift and Cyclonus. “Let’s go find something fun to do.”

Speaking of bad influences… 

But Smokescreen wasn’t going to do anything untoward, except fleece Tailgate at whatever game they ended up playing, or maybe teach him to use his innocence to fleece others. While they headed off in a different direction than the one Drift and Cyclonus had gone, Ratchet and Rung headed off in a third. 

“I wish my frame was flexible enough to kick myself,” Rung opened up. “I can’t believe I missed something on the magnitude of education as rebellion.”

“You weren’t the only one it caught by surprise,” Ratchet said, having anticipated exactly this topic. “I had no idea when he first told me about it.”

“So you did know, and changed the topic deliberately.” Rung sighed. “I thought that, after the Decepticon movement was made illegal, they had turned entirely to recruiting criminals and other mechs who wanted the government gone for selfish reasons, simply preparing for a war. I fell prey to assumptions.”

“You fell prey to propaganda as much as assumptions. It’s not like they  _ weren’t  _ recruiting criminals and dissidents and encouraging violence, but the Functionalists made sure everyone thought that was  _ all  _ they were doing.” Ratchet wasn’t going to reveal Drift’s screen name or any of his articles, but he was thinking about just how little time and how few downloads his unsanctioned publications had gotten. “They worked very hard to keep anyone from finding out about something as sympathetic as education and self-improvement.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this.” Rung sighed and took off his glasses to wipe them down as they walked. “I suppose, for one, I’ll stop asking you why you had that pile of textbooks and research papers stashed on your hard drive.”

“I appreciate that.” Even if he’d kept asking, Ratchet hadn’t planned on changing his story (or lack thereof). The donations were listed as coming from him, and that was all that mattered. “As far as how you should feel about it, I’m not sure what you want me to tell you.” Ratchet wasn’t the therapist here. “I felt stupid myself, at first,” he admitted, unable to do more than be there and share his own experience. “I felt like I should have known somehow, should have seen through the deceptions and prejudice.”

“‘You are being deceived’,” Rung murmured. “I’m sure you remember the graffiti as well as I do.”

“All too well.” They turned a corner and Ratchet paused to make sure no one was in the hallway before continuing. “You know what the most unflattering part of it was for me? I didn’t actually believe him straight off. My first, instinctive reaction was that there was no way they could have organized and educated themselves like that. Drift was right there in front of me, a living eyewitness to what it had really been like for mechs like him, and I automatically assumed he must be wrong somehow because it clashed with everything I’d always ‘known’ about the Decepticons.”

Rung winced. “I suppose it’s good I was too shocked to say anything until my psychotherapy programming caught up and told me that was a very bad thing to voice. He’s finally decided to keep his appointments with me, but that would have created a very justifiable rift.”

“I’d noticed he was talking with you more. I think it’s good for him and I hope he continues to,” Ratchet said. Maybe Rung would prove a better outlet for discussing his visions than he was, since despite recharging somewhat better since his “quest” he was still struggling with bouts of guilt and bad dreams. “He handled my initial disbelief surprisingly well. The fact that I was able to recognize there were holes in my knowledge that I’d filled with unverified ‘facts’ from suspect sources probably helped with that.”

“I’m glad things are working out for the two of you,” Rung said warmly. 

“So am I — even though it’s meant confronting prejudices I didn’t even realize I had. But I like to think he forgives the person I was as long as I work to rise above those shortcomings now, just like I forgive him for the past he’s left behind.” That forgiveness didn’t mean suddenly deciding to like what was in their respective pasts, but it did mean being willing to look beyond them to have a future together. “It’s almost like we’re good for each other or something.”

“It’s not my place to weigh in on your relationships,” Rung said diplomatically, but he was smiling approvingly as they came up on the bar. “Now I wonder if I could get permission to interview the prisoners about their education. I’m curious just what I’d find.”

“Based on my experience with them so far, I think you’d wind up with both exactly what you’d expect, and more.” Swerve’s wasn’t too crowded at the moment, so they were able to claim seats easily. “Some of them probably wouldn’t cooperate with interviews even if you got permission, but others… I’d like to think that some of them are actually interested in letting the war be over.”

“Given what  _ I _ would assume if a Decepticon ‘therapist’ wished to interview me after I’d been captured, I could not fault a lack of cooperation.” Rung sighed. “I just think I would never forgive myself if I let assumptions dictate what I saw.”

“What are we talking about?” Swerve asked interestedly, sidling up to the table to take their order.

“Oh, just how appearances can be deceiving,” Ratchet answered casually. “We” did not need to include Swerve. “You’re still buying, right?” he asked Rung.

“I am. I’d like a regular strength energon spritzer.” Rung nodded to Ratchet. “You?”

“A Stormy Rust Sea,” Ratchet said, going for the middle of the road on both strength and cost. 

Swerve made a note of their orders. “Still have a few surprise treats left.”

“Sure,” Ratchet said. “I’ll get those. Enjoy them while they last, right?”

“Right!” Swerve noted that too. “So, do you want to hear a joke? It’s about potassium.”

Ratchet frowned. Swerve’s jokes were always terrible. “If you must.” 

“K.” Swerve turned to Rung. “Plate of treats for you too, or are you sharing with Ratchet?”

“How about half a plate?”

“Sure. Coming up.” Swerve left, humming to himself.

Ratchet’s frown deepened. “I thought he was going to tell a joke?” Then, after a moment of thinking over what Swerve had said, he had to resist the urge to hit his head on the table. He almost did it anyway. “Wow. That really was awful.”

Rung tilted his head. “I recognized that he thought he’d delivered the punchline, but my background isn’t in chemistry.”

“K — the letter K,” Ratchet clarified. “It’s the atomic symbol for potassium.”

Rung took his glasses off and rubbed them, though they probably didn’t need cleaning. “That is clever, at least,” he said in a voice that told Ratchet he was trying to resist the urge to bang  _ his _ head against the table.

“He should save them for someone who can appreciate them,” Ratchet grumbled, “though who that would be I haven’t the slightest idea. Actually, no, that’s not true. Tailgate probably thinks they’re hilarious, even the ones he doesn’t understand.”

“He has his reasons.” Rung nodded in the direction Swerve had gone. 

“I suppose so, though as coping mechanisms go, that one’s pretty annoying to everyone else.”

“But sometimes mechs laugh,” Rung pointed out. “Even if it’s despite themselves, or because they’re intoxicated, they laugh.”

“And laughter is a good thing, yeah, yeah, I know,” Ratchet drawled, but it wasn’t quite sarcastic enough to be really biting. Laugher  _ was  _ a good thing, and Ratchet was happier now that there was more of it in his life. 

.

.

.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick. Forgot it was Friday. ~dragon

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.

.

The schedule for shore leave on Hedonia was posted next to Swerve’s door, outside the medbay, and in the library two cycles later. Silverstorm had integrated the repairs just fine and was back in the brig. He wasn’t allowed to join in the salvage work, because he’d just been almost  _ rebuilt, _ but that meant he had his cell almost to himself during Ultra Magnus’ salvage shifts. Ratchet was scheduling Blueray’s t-cog replacement for the cycle before they docked. That was a simple repair, and he could recover in the otherwise empty cell usually reserved for Autobot troublemakers. Fortress Maximus would be staying on the ship. While he was now allowed to frequent the  _ Lost Light’s _ social areas, he hadn’t done so yet, as far as Ratchet knew, and he was still restricted from going on shore leave.

_ Everyone else _ was going. No exceptions. Ratchet was almost sorry to have missed Red Alert and Ultra Magnus’ respective tantrums.

Not all at once, though. There were three cycle-long shifts, the first and last each overlapping by a half-cycle with the middle one, so there would be at least a third of the crew manning the ship at all times. Drift was going to be the first bridge officer to go down, with the first shift, and Ratchet would be going with them. Then Rodimus. Then Ultra Magnus, First Aid, and Ambulon, (and Whirl) would be going down on the third and final shift. That kept one bridge officer and at least one medic on the ship at all times. Ratchet saw a few others he knew would have requested they spend their leave together — like Swerve and Skids, and Cyclonus and Tailgate — were together, but otherwise it looked like Rodimus had used the randomizer to assign times to everyone else.

There was a slight increase in injuries among those working on the ships as everyone rushed to get things done. Fortunately none were truly serious, and only one of the Decepticon prisoners wound up being hurt. He admitted it was his own fault, at least, rather than trying to make an incident of it. Ratchet was able to patch him up, remind him that any injuries incurred on the job would be treated for “free” — in his case, with no additional work shifts assigned — and send him off with minimal hassle.

Through talking with the steady stream of patients, Ratchet was able to learn that Ultra Magnus’ already sour disposition was worsening the closer they got to Hedonia. Enforced leave clearly wasn’t something he was looking forward to, and he was taking it out on everyone around him by being even stricter than usual. Ratchet overheard Rodimus reminding him that there wasn’t room in the brig to lock people up over crooked badges and congregating in the halls when he met Drift coming off a shift on the bridge. Drift had confided that not only were most of the citations Ultra Magnus was trying to write up incredibly minor offenses, but many of the “violations” he’d “caught” were barely offensive enough to qualify. Both Fort Max and Red Alert had lodged a complaint over the misuse of the already full brig cells — though with different motivations, Ratchet was sure — and Ultra Magnus was left with no choice but to stew.

Ratchet warned Rung he should probably pencil in a time for the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord to have a mental breakdown in the near future.

Somehow it seemed like a miracle when they finally arrived at Hedonia. They jockeyed for a parking orbit while Ratchet finished up with Blueray and tested that everything was working properly. He canceled the medical stasis, though he didn’t force the Decepticon up out of powersave, and sent him down to recover in the brig. Fort Max almost gleefully kicked the last of the Autobot troublemakers out in favor of putting Blueray in the cell.

That done, Ratchet headed to the shuttle bay. He had a flight to catch!

The place was, understandably, full of people waiting for everyone to arrive so they could head down to the surface. A quick glance around was enough to confirm that Ratchet wasn’t the last one to show up, so he relaxed a little and started looking for Drift.

He found him leaning nonchalantly against the  _ Leading Light’s _ entrance hatch, silently taking a headcount. He smiled when he saw Ratchet. “Hey! What a coincidence. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Right? What are the odds,” Ratchet played along. “You said you had some things you wanted to do when we get there, yes?”

“Roddy threw a final tantrum earlier and assigned all the tasks Ultra Magnus was going to do down there instead of goof off to me. Lucky me.” Drift didn’t seem too upset about it. “So it’d probably be best to get those out of the way first. And I do want to visit a few places, see if I can get a lead on the Circle.”

Ratchet had been expecting the latter, and had already said he was willing to tag along, but the rest was news to him. “That means dealing with that inventory list he came up with, doesn’t it?”

“Does. Whatever he says about it, I’m perfectly capable of taking a shopping list and coming back with supplies.” Drift’s smile took on a sardonic edge. “I won’t even poison them.”

“He didn’t  _ really  _ suggest you would, did he?”

“Not in so many words,” Drift said airily. “I get it, though. He’s under a lot of stress. Otherwise it would have just been the usual about how Rodimus and I are birds of a feather when it comes to careless behavior and the crew’s needs.”

“You know, I’m starting to really worry about him,” Ratchet admitted. “I hope he actually manages to take a break and that it does him some good.”

“Swerve’s taking him drinking.” 

“Does Rung know?”

“Rung’s going with them,” Drift snickered. Then hedged, “Or so I hear.”

“I’ll try not to worry about it then,” Ratchet said, though he still expected to hear it had been a complete disaster. “Are those the last few we were waiting for?” he asked, pointing to the group that had just arrived.

Drift did a quick headcount again. “Yup.” With a graceful leap, he vaulted up onto one of the  _ Leading LIght’s _ wings with a  _ clang _ that caught everyone’s attention. “So,” he called out over the crowd, “all of you should know the rules by now, but in case you don’t: No fighting. No lying, cheating, or stealing. Stay out of Cybertronian-restricted areas. Use your holomatter disguises to scout a place before entering. If you’re late getting back, the captain and Ultra Magnus will draw straws as to whether you get punishment detail until the stars burn out or we just keelhaul you.” A smattering of mechs laughed at the joke and Drift’s flippant tone. “But seriously.  _ Behave.” _

He jumped down. “All aboard!”

No one had to be told twice. With a minimum of light shoving and jostling, everyone quickly found a seat and signalled they were ready for takeoff. Drift, as one of the mechs on leave rather than still on duty, wasn’t piloting, so they were able to claim seats next to each other. Ratchet looked between Drift on his one side and Pipes on the other, then firmly pushed any thoughts of Delphi out of his head. This trip wasn’t going to be anything like that.

The first glimpse of the planet, covered in a dark cityscape and bedecked in bright lights was more than enough to banish Delphi’s bright, icy wastes. There was a palpable air of excitement and mechs chattered animatedly about what they were going to do/see/drink/frag while they were down there.

Drift was one of the few that rode the shuttle down in silence. He just gave Ratchet a smile and intertwined their fingers.

“Alright,” he called to the group one last time as the doors opened to release the squirrelly Autobots upon the unsuspecting planet. “Remember: one cycle, then you’re back here in however many pieces you find yourselves.” He turned to Ratchet as the others quickly abandoned the ship, landing pad, and immediate environs. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Ratchet said, automatically checking to see if there was a publicly accessible network with visitor information. A map would be useful right about now. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

Drift nodded towards the slightly seedier section of the spaceport. “Selling our scrap first. The bigger ship’s still somewhat functional. Won’t take any hits, after the way we stripped the engine, weapons, computer systems, and much of the hull for parts, but we’ll get more if we can sell it as a spaceship instead of just scrap.”

“And it’s better to buy supplies once we know how much money we have to spend,” Ratchet nodded, though of course there would be money allocated from the ship’s budget for that as well as whatever they could get for the scrap. There was a virtual visitors’ center available, and he downloaded a copy of the basic map and guidelines provided and pinged Drift a copy. “There’s a good spot up ahead where we can park and start scouting from in holoform.”

Drift nodded. “Ultra Magnus had some suggestions, but I think we’d get more money from some of my old contacts, the majority of which would be more comfortable dealing with an ‘intermediary’ anyway.” He transformed and flashed his lights playfully.

It was too crowded for them to race, so they pulled into the traffic smoothly. The spot Ratchet had picked was a commercial parking lot, filled with other vehicles of every shape and size. The two of them didn’t even stand out at all.

Remembering to manifest his holoform inside his alt mode, then go through the entirely useless motions of opening his door, having the “human” step out, then closing it again, he turned the awareness of his new perspective to Drift, who was doing the same.

He tried to remember what Drift’s avatar looked like. He’d been on Earth long enough to need one, mostly during patrols. Like a lot of sports cars, he’d made an oversexualized female avatar at first, assuming that the people appearing in the ads for their alt forms represented the cars’ usual drivers. All of them had caught on quick and changed it. Drift, though, if Ratchet was remembering correctly, had kept the brown haired, blue eyed female in six inch spiked high heels, but had changed the outfit from the glorified swimsuit he’d originally copied to a sharp business suit.  _ Lawyer with something to prove, _ had been Verity’s judgement.  _ Eye candy and out of my league, _ had been Hunter’s. Ratchet had surmised from that that the aloof, white mech had managed to hit on the right combination of traits to make himself stand out in a way that would make him noticeable, but also forgettable.

However, the “human” exiting Drift’s alt form now was definitely  _ not _ the same holoform he’d used on Earth.

“I hardly recognize you,” Ratchet said, taking in his new disguise. The tall, thin man was around the same age as the middle-aged paramedic Ratchet was still pretending to be; a bit younger, maybe, but not by much. Any other details Ratchet might have noticed went by the wayside when Drift looked at him. “Your eyes…” They were  _ red.  _

“What’s wrong?” Drift reopened his door to look at his avatar’s reflection in his own rearview mirror. “Oh.” He slid back into the passenger seat. “Give me a klik and I’ll switch back to my old one. Sorry.”

“No! Don’t,” Ratchet said quickly, darting forward to catch Drift’s door; Drift let him, holding his door open instead of wrenching Ratchet’s hardlight body. “They’re fine the way they are.” He smiled as he made the connection. “You’re using Brainstorm’s new tech for generating an avatar, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Roddy thought it’d be fun. I didn’t see the harm.” Red eyes looked from his own reflection to Ratchet. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable though.”

“You’re not.” Ratchet smoothed his hand along Drift’s door reassuringly. “I told you I don’t have a problem with it, and it suits this face.” He knew red wasn’t a natural human eye color (outside a few, rare genetic faults), but that didn’t change how well they went together with his almost military-short black hair and warm brown skin, or that the algorithms generating the holoform had based them on how Drift saw himself. “Don’t change it.”

“Alright.” A subtle tension bled out of the plating under Ratchet’s hands; if there was an echoing relaxation in Drift’s avatar, he wasn’t nuanced enough in human body language to catch it. His door pulled open wider, and Ratchet stepped back so they wouldn’t accidently walk through each other as Drift got out. 

Standing in the parking lot, Drift took a moment to look himself over more completely. He patted down the front and sides of his old, faded military jacket. “The program was supposed to generate some ID for me… ah.” He pulled out a new, expensive leather wallet, flipping it over in his hands in confusion. Ratchet echoed the sentiment; it didn’t seem to fit the rest of him, which reminded Ratchet of a hitchhiker. All old, worn, utilitarian clothing. He was clean, but the only shiny part of him was the gold Rodimus Star patch where Ratchet thought a unit patch would normally be on that sort of army jacket. “Let’s see. I’m…” He flipped it open, blinked at it, then immediately flipped it closed. “Not using that. Hopefully my contacts won’t ask.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Ratchet asked, reflexively checking the medical ID pinned to the front of his shirt even though there was no reason for anything to be wrong with it. He hadn’t bothered upgrading to Brainstorm’s personality-driven avatar generator when it had been offered; he’d put a lot of effort into ironing out all the bugs in this one, thank you very much! Plus, he was used to it.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Drift answered with a resigned sigh. He handed the wallet over to Ratchet, who flipped it open to reveal a generic driver’s license belonging to an asian woman with bright green eyes and severe straight black hair, named Ima Rich. “It’s just not mine.”

“Interesting glitch,” Ratchet remarked, handing it back. “You should let Brainstorm know.”

“I’m not sure it’s a glitch.” He opened the wallet to show Ratchet the other side, which had a subtle ring pattern on it. “It’s a gasket. This is a part of me that was shaped by Gasket.” He sighed. “Which means I probably stole this wallet.”

“Oh.” Ratchet wasn’t sure what to say to that, other than, “I guess the technology is a lot more nuanced than we thought.”

Drift shrugged. “We’ll deal. Come on, we have a ship to sell.” Tentatively, he reached for Ratchet’s hand, smile showing off the subtle points of sharper-than-human-normal cuspids when they touched.

The light sculptures that made up their bodies felt almost real. While it wasn’t as nice as holding Drift’s real hand, Ratchet was willing to accept this for now. He twined their fingers together, then gestured with his free hand. “After you.”

Following in Drift’s wake, Ratchet couldn’t help but notice the exact replica of his Great Sword tucked under his backpack along his spine and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised by that. The hunk of metal was obviously very important to him.

It also wasn’t surprising that they were soon in an area that looked decidedly less than wholesome. Ratchet would have been a great deal more worried if Drift hadn’t seemed so confident, and their actual frames were a good distance away. They definitely wouldn’t be welcome in these streets in their true forms, and they’d stick out like Ultra Magnus at a minibots-only party in their clean, shiny white alts.

Through and between traffic, organic peoples of a variety of species huddled against the buildings an a variety of different rags. It wasn’t quite as bad as the Dead End before the war, but it wasn’t very nice. Ratchet remembered how Orion and Thunderclash had both been worried someone would knife him on his commute to the clinic back then. It’d never happened, but there’d been some close calls; he’d survived long enough to realize how dumb he’d occasionally been, and to learn a healthy dose of caution.

Drift lifted one elegant finger to his lips in a warning for Ratchet to keep quiet, then turned into one of the scrapyards. 

“Lookin’ fer Big Dog!” he called, in complete defiance of his own advice, using the galactic standard language for standard-atmosphere breathers with an audial range comparable to humans.

Several workers looked over. One unidentified voice called out, in a different galactic standard language — the one for liquid breathers — from behind a half disassembled ship. “Who th’Dohi’s askin’?”

“Don’t know me. Name’s Zen. We got an acquaintance in common though. Th’name Deadlock ring a bell?”

“Grynn-sorsa-<beep!>” The voice yelled.

“Back atcha!”

“Git yer  _ viottis _ back here!”

Drift grinned at Ratchet and led the way, a swagger creeping into his step.

Not having thought to ask what sort of role he was supposed to be playing in all this, Ratchet just did his best to look confident and unflappable. He set his avatar’s face to a neutral expression and followed Drift, looking around without staring at anyone or anything in particular. What he saw was promising, at least in terms of the sale they hoped to make. This was the sort of yard that was in the business of stripping down and refurbishing ships, by the look of it, and while the workers they passed were wary of them, none of them made any aggressive or threatening moves.

“Big Dog” turned out to be a very big alien, though not as big as most Cybertronians, vaguely mammalian with a snout of long, sharp teeth. To Ratchet, who was admittedly not an expert, he looked more like a seal than a dog, with slicked down fur and tiny ear-flaps. Knowing nothing about his species, Ratchet couldn’t even be sure he was a “he”, but Cybertronian didn’t exactly have any polite pronouns for aliens, and the galactic standard languages had about sixteen too many.

“So why’s Deadlock sendin’ someone after all’a this time?” Big Dog asked, the pupils of his slitted eyes narrowing. “He’n I’re square.”

“Are,” Drift agreed. “Gotta ship t’sell. He wanted me t’come to y’first.”

“Stolen.”

“Ain’t stealing if th’crew’re all dead,” he drawled back. “Then it’s ‘salvage’.”

“Which means he’s already stripped it.” Big Dog considered that. “It still functional?”

“Sure is.” Drift swung his backpack off of his shoulders and reached in, withdrawing a human datapad and switching it on. He handed the backpack to Ratchet, who thought it felt surprisingly heavy, and full, for something Drift had probably only wanted so he could “carry” a holographic representation of Ultra Magnus’ list around.

After that they got into the nitty gritty of negotiating. Specs and slang terms flew fast in two (or was it three?) different languages as they hashed out some sort of deal. Ratchet didn’t pay attention to the details as much as the tone, which stayed sharp and alert but non-hostile as they talked. He didn’t know what the final price would come out to be, but the handful of numbers he heard tossed around weren’t bad. Drift obviously thought they were good enough to stay here and complete the deal rather than shop around, and he’d know better than Ratchet.

He did realize when they’d finished, but only because Drift rattled off a Banker’s Clan account number, and Big Dog replied with the coordinates for a parking orbit. A few kliks later, Drift held up his datapad, showing the ship in the proper orbit. Big Dog had someone up there shuttle over and confirm, reporting on the ship’s apparent condition in a fourth language (not one of the galactic standards, but one that Ratchet’s files tagged as coming from the same datapack). Big Dog made a hand gesture that apparently meant he was satisfied, because he entered something into his terminal and Drift’s datapad chirped.

Drift checked it and grinned. “Pleasure doin’ business wit’ya.”

“Likewise. If yer ever back in this star cluster again, look me up. Could use an  _ izzo _ who ain’t afraid’a th’monster-bots.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Got plans fer my cut right now though.” Drift nodded in Ratchet’s direction. 

Big Dog’s pupils narrowed as he examined Ratchet. “Whatever fires yer thrusters. ‘Least xe’s yer own species?” The big alien didn’t sound so sure of that.

“Oh, he’s a catch. Promise.” Drift showed his teeth again; this time the expression could only generously be called a smile. “Mine.”

The alien shrugged.

And that was apparently it, because the two nodded to each other and Drift retrieved his backpack from Ratchet’s hands before leading them out.

They went to a second place and repeated the process to offload the majority of the scrap that wasn’t part of the ship, then to a third to sell off what the other place wouldn’t buy — mostly the junk that’d only ever be good for melting down. While they were there. Drift also asked about any news of a bunch of Cybertronians all using swords being captured and dragged off somewhere, and he and the proprietor haggled until they settled on a slightly lower price for the scrap, and he told Drift he hadn’t heard anything.

Looking over his final total from the three stops while they walked, Drift seemed pleased. “Sold it all for quite a bit more than a prayer and a song.”

“Somehow I expect Ultra Magnus had an actual number in mind,” Ratchet said, amused. “How did we do compared to his estimate?”

“Better than market price.” Drift showed Ratchet the number; Ratchet didn’t know what market price for a near derelict like the Decepticons’ ship — or ships in general — was, but it looked good. “Big Dog gave me some extra, to increase my ‘cut’ as Deadlock’s intermediary, since he wants to maybe hire me later.”

“Now there’s a good racket: use your holoform as an intermediary to mark up the price, then pocket the entire profit.” Ratchet chuckled, imagining a Cybertronian setting up a whole business with dozens of “employees” who were all just different iterations of himself. “Though I suppose the more often you do it, the more likely you are to get caught.”

“It’d be easier and safer to set up the holoavatar as a ‘partner’,” Drift agreed, shoving the touchscreen back into his backpack. “Someone who can go into these,” he waved at the road around them, right as they passed another  _ No Cybertronians Allowed _ sign, “places. Not likely to get much of a mark up every time, though. That was specifically because I claimed to be a freelancer and he wanted to butter me up for a future job. An employee or partner wouldn’t get that sort of enticement.”

“Shame you won’t be around to take advantage of his generous offer then.” Only not, because they had much more important things to be doing. Ratchet was glad Drift hadn’t taken it too hard when the alien hadn’t been able to tell him anything about the Circle. Hopefully they could find someone else who would know something. “What else have you got in that backpack, by the way? It felt like it was nearly full.”

“I haven’t looked.” He opened the backpack again and looked inside. A blush spread across his brown — Hispanic? Middle Eastern? Ratchet wasn’t sure, just that he was one of the less-privileged minorities on the North-American landmass — cheeks. “Food, I think.” He pulled out a human MRE.

“Yeah, that’s food alright, though some humans might argue the point.” Ratchet understood why it was there immediately, looking at it. Drift didn’t care what his fuel tasted like as much as that there  _ was  _ fuel, and he needed to have a stash of it hidden away even in times of plenty. Even his holoform had to have a stash, apparently. “How many do you have?”

The blush darkened. “It’s not just food,” he said, instead of answering. He tilted the open pack so that Ratchet could see the heavy metal case of a battered first aid kit and a secured and holstered handgun. And a lot of food. Most of it MREs, identical to the one Drift had pulled out, but also a clear plastic bag full of loose candy.

“Practical. I approve,” Ratchet said with a nod to the first aid kit. It almost looked like a holographic representation of everything Drift had in his subspace, between that and the gun… “The candy’s from Swerve’s, isn’t it?”

“I feel like I shouldn’t confirm or deny that,” Drift said, but with a chuckle. He closed up the pack and slung it back over his shoulders, on top of the Great Sword. “But I should definitely change back to the lawyer with her pre-midlife crisis before Rung sees,” he gestured to himself, encompassing the military haircut, the faded combat medic’s jacket, and the sturdy hiking shoes, “all this.”

“It is a bit revealing, isn’t it?” Ratchet hadn’t seen anything he was surprised by or didn’t understand, but he knew Drift more intimately than most. Wearing the parts of yourself you usually kept hidden from others quite literally on your sleeve couldn’t be comfortable. “He’d probably comment on the eyes first. But Rung’s back on the ship, so I think you’re safe for now.”

“Thank Primus.” Drift’s relief was exaggerated for effect, but probably real. “I didn’t expect them to be real enough in my mind yet to affect Brainstorm’s algorithm, and I didn’t know humans could have red eyes anyway.”

“They generally don’t, but it does sometimes happen. I doubt anyone around here would know even if it was a completely unnatural color though,” Ratchet pointed out. “Most of the aliens here probably couldn’t even tell you what species we’re impersonating.”

“One of the reasons Brainstorm was told to set his program to human,” Drift acknowledged. “No one could tell we’re acting weird either, or have odd names, since Earth isn’t an interstellar polity. Well that, and we have all that Earth data for him to pull from.”

That made sense too. “Yeah. Too many other species we’d only have the data to recreate military holoforms, and that’s a recipe for trouble.”

“Especially since we  _ are _ military mechs, every last one of us.” Drift shrugged, pausing to scan the street signs nearby. “This way. Let’s get Ultra Magnus’ list out of the way.”

The whole process gave Ratchet an interesting look into what was involved in this aspect of keeping a ship running. He knew how to manage and prioritize medical inventory, but he’d rarely been the one responsible for purchasing the things on the requisition forms he sent out. The novelty kept it from becoming arduous, though the sheer number of arrangements Drift was making and keeping track of made him very glad he was a medic, not in logistics.

Drift haggled here too, though Ratchet thought Ultra Magnus had had fixed prices in mind. He also asked every merchant they visited about the Circle, describing them or asking after prison ships large enough to carry all of them that might have come through to buy supplies. He paid for the information, even though he got nothing but negatives. Ratchet wished holoforms had EM fields, because Drift  _ seemed _ unbothered by each denial, coming back to hold hands and brag about how much money Ultra Magnus would have wasted if he’d been the one doing this, but Ratchet knew he couldn’t be unaffected.

“How are you holding up?” he finally went ahead and asked when he knew they were at the end of the list.

“Fine. I’m  _ disappointed,  _ that’s all,” Drift insisted when Ratchet scoffed. “And there’s a pair of dedicated information brokers I want to visit before I give up on them having been brought this way. But…” He hesitated, then forged ahead. “We’re still on the right path, and if we keep on it, there’ll be a guide.”

Ratchet squeezed his hand. “Okay then.” Drift was still holding on to whatever his drug-induced dream-quest had told him, and that meant he wasn’t going to break down now… though he might have gotten upset with Ratchet if he’d been able to feel his disapproval before he could shove it back in its box. Maybe not having EM fields wasn’t all bad. Drift was sleeping better, having only mild nightmares, and  _ not _ using recreationally and in danger of overdose; that was enough for Ratchet. It had to be. “Are the brokers close?” Their holoforms could project over a good distance, but it was worth keeping track of how far they were from their frames.

“Close enough.”

Drift had to stop and ask a few people (Ratchet couldn’t discern how he chose  _ those _ aliens and not one of the many others), but eventually someone pointed them in the direction they needed to go. 

The first broker was an AI, which they interacted with through a terminal. Ratchet wasn’t at all certain it passed the Ambus Test, but it had information and it experienced greed in some form — it definitely wanted money — so he wasn’t going to quibble. It ran its searches, said it had a file covering the attack on the Circle (and the  _ Lost Light’s _ incident with the Galactic Council afterward). Drift reiterated that he already knew about the attack and wasn’t going to pay for redundant information. The AI ran more searches and crunched some numbers, then announced that the attack could only have been carried out by someone with Cybertronian resources, and that there were no known factions in this sector with enough of those resources, including the scattered Decepticons nearby.

Drift thanked it, paid it, and moved on.

The second was a Xn’drikxian hive-queen who apparently sold weapons as well as information. She didn’t have anything new either, though she confirmed that there were no known factions in the area that could assault such a well entrenched Cybertronian stronghold as New Crystal City. Drift paid her for that, sidestepped her attempts to entice them to buy some weapons, and leaned heavily against a lamppost outside the hive-building.

“Is it time to find somewhere to sit down for a bit?” Ratchet asked, concerned.

“Time to find someplace slightly secluded to go poof,” Drift corrected. He offered a slightly wan smile. “Then we can go find someplace to sit.”

“Sounds good.” Ratchet looked back up the street. “I think there was an alcove back there we can use,” he offered. “Shall we?”

Drift nodded, taking Ratchet’s hand.

There was an alcove there. It wasn’t as private as having a door or wall between them and the street, but they weren’t in casual view and no one was watching them. Ratchet waited for Drift to flicker out before shutting off his own holomatter systems. 

He blinked back to awareness in his own body, still parked in the lot with all the other vehicles. A few of their neighbors had changed while they were out, but Ratchet didn’t have any new scratches, so at least they’d been good drivers. “Which way do you want to go?” he asked Drift. “We passed that themed restaurant that said Cybertronians were welcome just before the shops gave way to the scrapyards.”

“Sure,” Drift agreed, engine turning over as he warmed up from being parked so long. “And after, there’s a street market I want to go to. I saw the ad in the welcome broadcast we received as we entered the system and it said it was our size and we’d be welcome.”

“More shopping?” 

“Different kind of shopping. The wandering around and talking about things we want but probably won’t get sort of shopping.” Drift didn’t wait for an answer; his engine turned over again and he pulled back out into traffic, turning towards the scrapyards. 

The restaurant was easy enough to find again. The buildings on either side of it were built to more normal orgainic size, three or four stories tall, while it was the same size but only had one story. The door was big enough to let a mech the size of Fort Max through, and it had a large sign in galactic standard script under its utterly alien establishment name that clearly said that Cybertronians were welcome, and that it served “over 1,000 varieties and mixes” of energon.

Also, “please inform the establishment if you need a translator.”

It was very… organic inside. Plants in a variety of shades grew along the edges of the room and in between booths. Ratchet heard something very much like birdsong, but nothing at all like what he’d heard on Earth. A loud chirp that didn’t blend with the rest of the soundtrack drew his attention to a very large insect-like creature, perched on the nearest tree… thing. Tree-thing. But the bug. The bug was about the size of Ratchet’s hand, larger than a human, with bright purple stripes and antennae as long as his arm.

“I wonder what world that’s native to,” he said, looking up at it. “Or if this is even all from one world at all.”

“You’re the one with medical scanners,” Drift pointed out with a smile, coming over to examine the bug. “Check whatever they use for genetic material.”

“At least it won’t be related to the swarm.” Ratchet went ahead and scanned the bug, comparing the readings from it and the other life forms around them. “They are related to each other though.”

“Party of two?” A waitress, a vaguely feminine alien as tall as they were but very thin, with birdlike features and very large, solid black eyes, came up before Drift could answer. “Would you like a table or seats at the bar?”

“Whatever you want, Ratch,” was Drift’s contribution.

“Table, I think,” he decided. They would have a little more privacy that way, and more of the plants to look at.

“Right this way.” She turned and led them through the winding, plant-lined paths around the occupied tables until she gestured to an empty one with a bow. Drift pulled the Great Sword off his back and set it on the seat next to him before sliding into the booth himself. “This is our mechanicals menu,” she said, bringing up a holographic display from the projector built into the table. “Or would you prefer fare for bio-mechanicals?”

“The one for mechanicals is fine, thank you,” Ratchet said. There were probably some things on the bio-mechanical menu that they could consume without any issues, but he didn’t feel like picking through it. “Will you be back around, or do we just call when we’re ready?”

“I’ll be back around,” she chirped, with a slow blink of her clear eyelids, “unless you would prefer privacy. If you do, just press this,” she tapped a symbol unfamiliar to Ratchet, “on the menu, and that will tell us to wait until you call for us.”

“Understood.” He watched her go, then turned to Drift. “Do you have a preference?”

“I’m checking if they have energon tea,” Drift answered, flipping through the holographic menu. “Unless you have a suggestion.”

“Of course you are,” Ratchet chuckled. “I don’t think my suggestions would be very helpful, especially since I should probably be following your example for now. Driving around drunk at an alien street market probably doesn’t fall under the category of ‘behaving’.”

“If that is the worst thing that happens, Ultra Magnus will have no cause to complain about our behavior,” Drift said with a laugh. “So it depends on whether you want to be lined up with the other troublemakers when he does his Lecture. Ooh! They have full ceremony service tea sets.”

“Share one with me?” 

“If you want.” Drift reached out with his field, showing his shy pleasure. “It’s not a religious thing,” he assured, “but a little more formal than just getting tea in a cup.”

“Which makes it something we can’t do back on the ship, so we should take advantage of the opportunity now,” Ratchet said firmly. He could always order something stronger afterward, if he wanted to.

“Alright.” He skimmed through that section of the menu again. “How do you like crystal flavors?”

“Some better than others,” Ratchet answered honestly. “Silicates are always good.”

“They have an amethyst, rose quartz, and prasiolite blend. Naturally mined, if the description is to be believed.”

“Then let’s try that.” Not that Ratchet had ever noticed much of a difference between naturally mined and cultured crystals when it came to consumables. “Is that something that matters to you? Whether it’s naturally mined or not?”

“You can taste the EM field of the planet in which the mineral formed,” Drift said seriously, pressing the call button to bring the waitress over. “It’s the mark of the creator.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ratchet blurted out without stopping to think. “Electromagnetics can affect the growth of a crystal, sure, but it doesn’t affect the taste like that.” He started to say more, but then noticed the amused glint in Drift’s optics, at odds with the sincerity in his field. “You’re just saying that to annoy me, aren’t you?”

“Pretty much.” Now his field shifted to match his expression. “Yes, hello,” he switched languages as the waitress came up, a hexagonal datapad already out and waiting. He smiled. “We’d like the three-quartz blend of energon tea, served in a ceremonial set, to share.”

She bobbed her head, birdlike in that movement as well as appearance, typing that in. “Anything else?”

“Maybe afterward,” Ratchet told her. She bob/nodded again, then made her way back through the plants. “Brat.”

“You wouldn’t want me any other way,” Drift retorted, setting his arms on the table and holding out one hand in silent request.

“No I wouldn’t.” Ratchet took his hand, squeezing gently. “Though I wouldn’t say no to seeing you a little less stressed. I haven’t heard you joke like that in a while.”

“Things have been stressful,” Drift acknowledged. “And I’ve noticed how you’ve been more open minded and less reactionary, and appreciate it, but I like teasing you.”

“I enjoy it, too.” He just hadn’t been sure where the line between having fun and giving offense was, especially with Drift so upset over the Circle. “If you’d rather I stop erring on the side of caution…” 

“I trust you.” He squeezed Ratchet’s hand.

“Alright then.” Ratchet grinned. “It’s still completely ridiculous.”

“Of course it is,” Drift agreed. “The origin of crystals doesn’t make much difference at all. Mined ones do tend to have more impurities, especially the rose quartz, since that isn’t one mineral but about six or seven different varieties with the same name, and those do affect the flavor somewhat.”

“Less so in a blend than in isolation, but yes. Of course, sometimes the impurities and inclusions are actually desirable, but again: less noticeable in a blend.” 

The waitress returned with a small hovercart. Drift smiled politely at her, optics friendly. She blinked back, and started to assemble the tea set. She placed a frame between them and lit a canister of gelled alcohol to create a low-temperature flame, then set the clear pot over it. A strainer and two scoops each of the ground up crystals went over the top of it, then she poured the energon through the strainer. Finally, she put the lid on to let it steep.

She set a small, clear cup in front of each of them, along with a bowl of sweetener cubes next to the teapot, then bowed. “Please enjoy your meal. And remember, if you need anything, just signal.”

“Thank you, we will.” They watched her push the hovercart back towards the kitchen and then turned their attention back to each other. “We’ll see how noticeable it is now, won’t we? After it steeps for a klik,” Drift added, when he didn’t reach over to serve it right away.

“I know one thing I won’t be tasting in it for sure.”

“The Cleansing Light of Primus’ Grace?”

“Bingo.” Ratchet scowled at the — actually quite pretty — service. “God is not in that teapot.”

“The gods are within us,” Drift murmured prosaically. 

“Within your mind, maybe,” Ratchet snorted.

“Why yes,” the swordsmech chirped, refocusing on their game, “Epistemus did become the first brain module. How nice of you to acknowledge that.”

“I’m not acknowledging anything,” Ratchet countered. “Even if, purely for the sake of argument, Epistemus actually did become the first brain module, that doesn’t say anything about the brain modules in anyone else.”

“It means our ability to think, to reason, even the ability to question the divine,” Drift’s voice was reasonable, “comes from the divine. In design, if not in inheritance.” Checking the color of the energon through the clear teapot, he nodded in satisfaction. “Cup?” Deftly he poured a measure of the fuel into Ratchet’s proffered cup, then his own, before returning it to the flame to keep warm. “Just because we can duplicate the design does not mean it wasn’t divinely granted.”

“And how does one ‘divine’,” it was hard to make air-quotes around a tea cup, “brain module confer the ability to think, reason, and question on everyone? It could only exist in a single individual, or as a disembodied part that would be useless unless we  _ already  _ possessed those things.”

“Says the one whose original frame — brain module included — formed from the sentio metallico around his spark.” Drift blew across the surface of his tea with every appearance of serenity and took a contemplative sip. “Your argument potentially applies to me, though.”

“I’m not trying to make a distinction between forged and cold-constructed mechs,” Ratchet said, arching a brow ridge at Drift. “And I suspect you’re not either, since that would undermine your assertion that  _ everyone  _ shares the same divine connections.”

“It’s a philosophical concept called the Inheritance of Divinity Through Inheritance of Design,” Drift responded, sounding a little like one of Ratchet’s teachers back in school.  _ “Your _ brain module might have been constructed by the hands of the gods, but if you went on to create a cold constructed mech, you are using Their gifts to pass on Their gifts, granting that mech that aspect of divinity through the use of Their design.”

“So what, divinity is contagious?”

Drift laughed, happy and truly amused.

Ratchet joined him quietly after a moment, hiding his smile behind his cup. “Sounds kind of terrible, doesn’t it?” he said, then tried the tea. If there had been any impurities in the quartz, they must have been minimal — or he thought so, at first. “Oh! It’s there in the aftertaste.”

“Hmmm?” Curious, Drift took another sip, swallowed. “What is it?”

“Manganese. The range the quartz came from must have had a lot of it.” Ratchet tasted it again to be sure. Yes; there was a slight tang on the finish. “I’d say it really was naturally mined.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Drift took one more sip to be sure, and shook his head. “Too subtle for me. As for ‘contagious’ divinity, you atheist heathen,” there was a teasing lilt to the words that took any sting out of them, “I  _ suppose _ you could consider it true, by the alchemical concept of contagion, but no more so than brain modules themselves are.”

Atheist heathen indeed. It didn’t sound like a bad title to Ratchet. “How does that philosophy of inheritance deal with other designs? Does it just say ‘divine’ designs are somehow different, or do all designs supposedly pass on a portion of their creator?”

“You could make an argument for both, though Exciple, the thinker who came up with inheritance through design, meant it to be inclusive. We are part of the divine and therefore all we create is part of the divine.” Drift set his cup down and traced the edge with his finger thoughtfully. “Exciple was a quite progressive and influential member of the Cult of Adaptus during his time.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of something like Brainstorm’s inventions, and whether or not they or copies of them would be considered to carry an essence of him.” Which was a terrifying thought, really. 

“Given his current project is a fleet of nano-scale drones clearly patterned after Whirl, I think that would be a very apt description of the AIs: essence of Brainstorm.” Drift laughed again, and took a sip of his tea, humming appreciation.

“We’re all doomed.” Or maybe they’d get lucky and the things wouldn’t somehow escape or go rogue. “Though on the subject of drones, I know that’s what some have argued we would be without an ‘essence’ of the gods.”

“Even you won’t argue there’s  _ no _ difference between us and drones,” Drift retorted archly. 

“I’m in a pretty good position to know the differences, yes,” Ratchet agreed. “But the presence or absence of a ‘divine spark’ isn’t one of them.”

“We’ll just have to disagree about that.”

“I guess so.” Ratchet took that as the signal to drop the subject for now, which he felt proud of being able to do more easily than he had in the past. “Would you mind?” he said, holding out his empty cup.

“Not at all.” Drift’s movements were a  _ little _ unpracticed, but deft as he poured refills for both of them.

“Thank you.” The flavor of the tea was stronger in the second cup, and Ratchet decided he liked it. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“New Crystal City,” he answered, a little wistfully. “Wing taught me.”

Oh. “Would you rather talk about something else?”

“Wing passed into the Allspark before I became an Autobot,” Drift answered. “I miss him, but I miss Gleam, and Gasket, and a lot of other people I won’t see again in this life. I can talk about him. And we’ll find the Circle,” he stated with conviction, taking a sip of his tea. “Even if they choose to return to Theophany, without the titan there to provide the backbone of the city, New Crystal City won’t ever be what it was. I can talk about them.”

Ratchet nodded, glad to hear it. He wasn’t always the poster mech for talking about things himself, but it was the healthier way of dealing with loss. “Was it something he just decided you should know, or was it something you asked him about first?”

“Um… both.” The expressive plating around Drift’s optics took on an expression of amusement. “I was quite the vicious, feral Decepticon when he found me, and I broke two of his tea sets when he tried to show me at first. Later, I asked to be shown.”

“Started off as an attempt to ‘civilize’ you, huh?” Ratchet chuckled. “It seems to have worked.”

“Better than some of the other things he tried.”

“Dare I ask?”

“We~ll…” Drift trailed his finger around the edge of his cup. “He tried teaching me to dance. Formal Iaconian ballroom dances.”

Ratchet nearly choked on his tea. “Seriously?” he said, coughing to clear his intake. “How did that go?”

“He pointed out dancing’s usefulness to combat as practice of body and partner awareness.” Which, yes, Ratchet could easily see how dancing could teach those. “So after throwing a tantrum got me locked in the salle with a faulty music player for three cycles, I said ‘fine’. Then demonstrated that I  _ already _ had excellent frame and enemy awareness.” He trailed his finger around the cup’s rim one more time as he paused for dramatic effect. “By stepping on his foot every chance I got, whether we were ‘dancing’ or not.”

This time Ratchet didn’t choke as he laughed. “That’s one way to prove a point. Does that mean you didn’t actually learn many of the dances? I think I actually knew one or two of them myself, at one point.”

“Well I  _ may _ know one.”

Probably not any of the ones Ratchet knew; or, rather, remembered vaguely in bits and pieces. That didn’t stop him from asking, “Maybe we could find a time when the observation deck is empty and you could show me.”

“I’d probably embarrass myself,” Drift said, a little coaxingly.

“No more than I’ll embarrass myself,” Ratchet said, both to encourage him and because it was true. “And I won’t laugh.”

“Deal.”

“I look forward to it, then.” Ratchet smiled, amused by the turn their conversation had taken. “Do you— oh! Look up.” A glittering eight-legged beetle had crawled out along the vines above Drift’s head, sweeping its antennae down toward his finials. 

Drift looked up right as the beetle came close enough to brush his optics with the delicate appendages, and he drew back in surprise. “Gah, that feels weird,” but he smiled as he said it. “Rude.”

“I wonder if it’s interested in the tea, too.” There wasn’t much left if it was. Or maybe it was Drift it found interesting. Ratchet had no idea what compounds it found attractive. “Are those wing casings?”

“Looks like. I can’t tell if there are wings under them though.” Drift craned his head to try to get a look at the bug without being touched again. “They could be a protective shell over its babies, or something.”

Ratchet thought he’d prefer they were wings. One bug was enough to worry about, as Bob so often proved. At least their current visitor was less aggressive, and decided to continue along the vine rather than dropping down on the table. “It really stands out against the foliage.”

“Thought organics wanted to hide from things that’d spot them.” Drift watched it go. “You said all this stuff was from the same planet; makes me wonder why it’s so bright.”

“Organics have to hide from predators, but they also have to attract mates.” The two imperatives didn’t always work well together. “Maybe this one prioritized the latter.”

“Good point.” Drift checked the amount of tea left in the pot. “Do you want the last of it?”

“You go ahead,” Ratchet said, pressing the call button for the waitress. “I’m going to go ahead and get a small cube of highgrade.”

Drift was pouring out the last of the tea when she came up, curling her long fingers around the datapad. “Yes?”

“I’d like to add a small portion of this nickel-infused solar highgrade,” he said, indicating the blend on the menu. 

She noted that. “Anything else?”

“Just bring the check when you bring his drink, thank you,” Drift informed her. 

“Of course.”

Ratchet looked and saw that Drift did still have an almost full cup of tea as she left. “And after we finish our drinks, it’s off to that street market.”

“Unless you have other plans.”

“Other than eventually making our way back to the shuttle, no.” Which they still had plenty of time before they needed to worry about. “Normally I’d be worrying how things were getting on without me by now, but…” Strange as it was, he really  _ wasn’t  _ worried about the state of the medbay. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had such good help.”

“First Aid and Ambulon are good at their jobs.” Drift gave him a teasing, slightly fanged grin. “So when’s retirement?”

“Why? You in a hurry to see me shuffled off to the sidelines?” But Ratchet was grinning too. “I don’t have a firm date in mind, just a list of skills I want to make sure First Aid is proficient in before officially stepping down, and he’s getting awfully close to checking all the boxes. Not that there’s an actual, formal checklist,” Ratchet shrugged. He’d thought about writing one up, but found that every time he tried he wound up being too critical and demanding too much. First Aid was more than capable; it wasn’t fair to hold  _ not being Ratchet  _ against him.

“Maybe I just want you to myself,” Drift teased, and Ratchet snorted at him. Already Drift was the busier of the two. “That’s good news, though, about First Aid.”

“It really is. Given his demotion at Delphi, I wasn’t sure what to expect when he first came on board besides enthusiasm and potential.” Both of which had been enough on their own to convince Ratchet he was worth training, but he’d been pleasantly surprised just how much training First Aid already had. “At this point I’m certain that whole mess was more about a conflict of personalities than anything else.”

“That unfortunately happens.” Drift sipped at his tea.

“All too often, yes. At least in this case, it didn’t destroy his career.” The waitress reappeared with Ratchet’s drink and the check, both of which he accepted. “Let me settle this for you now,” he said before she could walk away.

Drift looked like he wanted to object, but he held his peace while the waitress ran Ratchet’s chip, loaded up with his leave stipend. 

“Thank you for visiting!” She didn’t try to pronounce the bar’s name for them. “I hope the rest of your visit to Hedonia is pleasurable and profitable.”

“I could have gotten that,” Drift commented mildly when she was gone.

“But you didn’t have to.” Ratchet didn’t mind being the one to pay. “You can always pick up the next round at Swerve’s if it bothers you.”

“See if I don’t.” He swirled his tea, looking down at some bits of crystal that had crept out of their strainer. 

Ratchet’s highgrade was free of any sort of debris, and it had a wonderful, smooth flavor and warm burn when he tasted it. “Mmm.”

“Good?” 

“Very. I’d offer you a taste, but I suspect I already know your answer.”

“No, thank you. I was thinking that you might want to drop a suggestion to the others about this place, for anyone wanting a little bit of a quieter place to spend some time.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” The atmosphere was definitely better suited to quiet conversation than boisterous carousing, and some of the crew would appreciate that. “Hound should definitely come here, if only for the wildlife.”

“Oh, he’d like that!” Drift laughed.

“Probably encourage the critters to crawl all over him.” Ratchet looked around for the beetle from earlier, but it had wandered away. He saw others though, some slowly meandering across the ceiling while others scuttled along with more speed. Those were staying away from the light at the tables, visible mostly by their movement. “Though Ultra Magnus will have to make sure he doesn’t try to bring any of them back with him.”

Drift giggled. “Ultra Magnus will be down here,” he set his tea cup down to copy Ratchet’s air quotes, “‘relaxing’ by the time Hound’s group gets back. Which,” his voice turned rueful, “means I’m going to be the one making sure Hound doesn’t bring back any bugs.”

“I’d say cut him a break, but we really don’t need an infestation,” Ratchet said, shuddering at the thought. Most of the species here probably weren’t  _ dangerous  _ to Cybertronians, but they would definitely be a nuisance, and some of them could probably do some serious damage to the inner workings of a spaceship.

“I’m not planning on letting things like that slide,” Drift assured.

“That is a relief to me and to Ultra Magnus, I’m sure.”

“Ultra Magnus is probably going to do an inspection as soon as we’re underway again, no matter what I do,” Drift griped. “Doesn’t mean I won’t do my job, though.”

“I’d say don’t feel bad or think he’s doing it because he doesn’t trust you, but I’m not stupid enough to think that’s not part of it.” Of course, Drift wasn’t entirely special in that regard. Ultra Magnus didn’t trust anyone to live up to his standards. “That said, he’d probably do it anyway just as a way to unwind from his enforced vacation.”

“He’s the only person I know who would need to ‘unwind’ after shore leave.”

“I can think of one or two more,” Ratchet muttered, “but I’d rather not dwell on them. Ultra Magnus is the only one we need to deal with out here anyway, and he was already well on his way to being intolerable before this. Whatever’s got him so wound up, I hope that this break either finally gives him a chance to relax a bit, or finally pushes him over the edge so he can get his breakdown out of the way.”

Drift laughed. “One of those.” He finished his tea and set the cup to one side.

“I must be talking too much,” Ratchet said, looking at his own drink. He still had a little over half of it left.

“No rush.”

“As long as you don’t feel like I’m holding us up.” 

“Never.”

With that pressure off the table, Ratchet went ahead and savored the rest of his drink. It really was nice, and not just because it was different than what he could order at Swerve’s (though he couldn’t deny the novelty played some part in his enjoyment). For his part, Drift seemed willing to just chat lightly while Ratchet sipped. They talked about the rest of the bugs they could see from their seats, narrowing down which ones they thought Hound would be most interested in. Hound, and Perceptor.

There was no question which one Rodimus would like best. The bright, fire-red beetle they saw on their way out sitting boldly in plain sight was just too perfect.

“Which way to the market?”

“This way.” Drift folded himself down into his sleek alt form to lead the way.

They turned away from the more industrial areas around the spaceport, and toward an area that looked a little more affluent. Trees, or what looked like trees, in several different colors lined the streets, which had restaurants, museums, and small shops frequented by pedestrians of a dozen different species. Initially everything was for smallish organics, about human sized, but as Drift led him through the winding streets, the average size of the crowd got bigger, and those smaller members didn’t leave their vehicles for fear of being stepped on. That’s where Drift pulled over and transformed, earning some less than friendly looks.

Still, the entrance to the market — which was set up in what looked like a large park — distinctly said  _ Cybertronians Welcome — Factions Not _ on the sign.

Ratchet transformed as well, eyeing their faction symbols. “Think they mean that literally, or just that they won’t tolerate any fighting?”

“I assume the second,” Drift said, “since neutrals didn’t stray very far from their safe havens until recently. But we’ll see, yeah?” He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers with a smile.

“Good thing I don’t plan on fighting with you,” Ratchet said, reaching for the offered hand. “There are so many other things I’d rather do with you.”

Drift smiled. “Was that an innuendo?” he purred, but didn’t wait for an answer, pulling Ratchet into the crowd. 

Most of the stalls were canvas tents, where the proprietors called out to anyone who looked interested in a variety of languages. Ratchet didn’t understand most of them, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t really looking to buy anything. Window shopping was still fun, even without any actual windows.

“A lot of this looks purely decorative,” he commented.

“Purely decorative things not fit the image of the tough, all-business CMO?” Drift teased, dragging him over to look at a display of prisms carved into different shapes, rainbows floating around the tent.

“It’s not that,” though they didn’t really, “it’s that I don’t have anywhere to put stuff like this.”

Drift cocked a brow ridge. “Well then.” He backed up and stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd. “This way, I think.”

Ratchet wondered what had caught his optic, and continued to wonder, enjoying the touch of Drift’s coy EM field, until he was pulled into a stall selling handmade shelves and display cases.

Almost immediately, Drift bounced over to a low unit with three shelves. “This one will fit in your quarters.” 

It would, yes, but, “Why?”

“So you’ll have a place to put things,” he answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Things I don’t need.” Things there was no point getting. Collecting  _ things  _ just for the sake of having things was… “They’ll just get lost or broken.”

Drift shrugged, unable to refute that point. “Maybe you don’t  _ need _ anything, but is there anything you  _ want?” _

Now it was Ratchet’s turn to shrug. He wasn’t in the habit of thinking in those terms, and the idea of bringing something back that was entirely nonfunctional, just to look at, seemed silly. He barely spent any time in his quarters except to sleep. “I guess something like this would work for datapads too, if the shelves were spaced for them.”

The shelf they were looking at wasn’t quite right, so Drift flagged down the seller, a mammal only a little shorter than they were with four arms and four legs and a long tail. “Can help?” it asked in heavily accented galactic-for-near-human-vocal-ranges.

In the same language, Drift quickly described the dimensions that would fit in Ratchet’s quarters, along the wall at the head of the berth, and the size the shelves needed to be to hold datapads. 

“Here,” the alien said when Drift was done, leading them deeper into the tent. “Know mechanicals like metals, crystals, but this one fit. Made of Reslora fern-wood. Very pretty.”

It was very pretty, even empty. The wood had a nice, even color to it with a unique grain, and the shelves had decorative beading carved along the edges. “How sturdy is it?”

“Eh? About 40,000 PSI,” which was about the same tensile strength of steel. A Cybertronian could bend or break it if he tried, but it should hold up to casual use. Ratchet wondered if he should secure it to the wall with brackets, in case of turbulence, then wondered when he’d actually started considering getting it.

“You really think I should buy this, huh?” he asked Drift, trying to imagine what it would look like in his habsuite.

“I think you deserve nice things,” Drift answered, sidestepping the question a bit. “I’d like to be able to promise the  _ Lost Light _ isn’t going anywhere, but we both know I can’t. But you aren’t going to be suddenly reassigned or left behind on a battlefield. If you leave, you’ll be able to pack.”

“I suppose.” There was no reason that shouldn’t be the case. Ratchet didn’t fully believe it all the same. Perhaps that was exactly the reason he should get it though — a physical reminder that they weren’t at war anymore, that he could get things without expecting them to wind up either left behind or destroyed. Maybe it would help him believe it, someday. “Sure, why not. It’s not like I need the money for something else.”

“Is good!” 

Drift haggled a bit, bringing the price down a little, and Ratchet arranged to have it stored at the information stall at the entrance to the park while they shopped, since the shelving unit would fit in his ambulance bay, but would be pretty awkward to carry. He made sure to tip the two burly, lizard-like workers who carried it off, then turned around to look for Drift.

“How about a lamp?” the speedster called from the next stall over.

“A lamp?” Sure enough, the next stall was full of lamps. There were a variety of sizes available, though Ratchet suspected some of the “table lamps” Drift was looking at were designed as floor lamps for smaller beings. “I already have a lamp. It’s built into the suite.”

“Pfft. The ceiling lights aren’t  _ lamps,” _ Drift scoffed gently. “What about this one?” He poked one that looked like a branch covered in foliage, like a scene from the restaurant. Six or seven delicately wrought glass and metal bugs lit up from their abdomens, and one had a holographic projection of rapidly buzzing wings. Drift reached around behind it, and a projected scene of a small swarm of bugs fluttered on his palm. “Neat.”

“Interesting.” It looked like something that would wind up broken within a decacycle. “Kind of fragile.”

“Perceptor has a formula for some sticky pads that keep things from getting knocked around accidentally.” Drift’s grin grew wider. “Do you see something you like better?”

“I don’t know… something like this, maybe?” Ratchet gravitated toward a plain, utilitarian model that was little more than a light on the end of a flexible pole attached to a heavy base.

Drift came over to look at it, flicking it on and off a few times. “It’s nice,” he allowed, “but how’s it different than the ceiling lights?”

“It’s smaller, not as bright, and I can reposition it.”

“All very good points.” Drift waved over the seller, a tall, thin white skinned humanoid with large black, compound eyes. 

“Have you found something that interests you?” the alien asked in one of the galactic languages.

“Yeah,” Drift answered before Ratchet could. “We’d like this one,” he pointed to the one Ratchet had picked out, “and that one over there,” he gestured to the decorative one with the light up bugs.

A brief negotiation over price, and Ratchet found himself being towed away holding a box containing two lamps and a not inconsiderable amount of packing material.

“Please tell me you got one of these for yourself,” he said, suspecting that he had, in fact, just wound up with not one, but  _ two  _ lamps he didn’t need.

“They’d interfere with the feng shui of my habsuite,” Drift said blithely. “Do you have room in your subspace for that box? If not, I do.”

“I’ve got room.” Ratchet paused to get the box carefully tucked away. He didn’t have room for much else, but space obviously wasn’t a concern for Drift and his shopping spree. “You’d better help me set all this up when we get back.”

“I will. We’ll probably have to see if one of the engineers can make some adapters for the ship’s power, but that’s no problem.”

“No, they’ll probably have fun with it. Just don’t let Brainstorm get involved, or he’ll turn them into something unrecognizable and probably lethal.”

“As one does,” Drift agreed, tugging Ratchet deeper into the market.

A lot of the stalls had clothing for a hundred different body shapes, and jewelry, which they had no need for, but there was plenty of stuff to interest them. Toys and games, which they poked at but didn’t buy. One stall had a variety of incense, which Drift did buy a few packets of. Several had pets for sale, which they looked at and discussed, but didn’t show enough interest in for the sellers to come over to try and convince them to purchase something.

Drift didn’t so much talk Ratchet into buying the painting of a vibrant, alien sunrise as simply buy it for him (again), but at least he picked out something — a painting of a pair of alien snails, one brown and the other white — for himself this time.

“Finally found something that won’t, how did you put it, ‘interfere with the feng shui’ in your room?”

“Yup.” Drift gave Ratchet a rather crooked grin and stashed the paintings in his subspace.

“I’m not even going to recognize my room with all this stuff,” Ratchet grumbled, but he wasn’t really upset.

Drift didn’t acknowledge that; he just started pulling Ratchet in a new direction. “Come look at these.”

“These” were oil lamps made from a variety of crystals. Some were quite small, containing only one wick and a small reservoir, but others were larger. Lamps with two, three, even four wicks were available in a variety of crystal bases, all cut and polished on the top to better reflect the light while the sides were left rough and natural.

“I already have a lamp,” Ratchet found himself saying again. “Several lamps,” thanks to Drift. Still, he picked up one of the crystals for a better look. It would be fussy to refill, but it wasn’t like he had a problem working with small, fiddly hand tools. 

“‘Several’ is a descriptor that only applies to numbers greater than three,” Drift replied absently, taking apart one made from simple brown banded agate as though testing how difficult it would be.

“Fine,” Ratchet said, revising his statement. “I already have  _ a couple  _ of lamps. Ones that will function better as light sources than any of these.” He set down the quartz cluster he’d picked up and reached for another, this one fashioned from what looked like a segment of vivid blue geode. In addition to the wick and reservoir, this one looked like it had a place to set a stick of incense.

“I don’t think light is the point of these,” Drift said, putting the agate lamp back together carefully. “The flame — the motion and shadows and reflections in the crystal — is. It’s to be enjoyed.”

Put that way… “I can see how it might be relaxing to watch.”

“Do you like that one?” Drift asked, picking up another one made of agate, this one with a more vibrant, red lacy pattern.

“Yes. Though if I were going to pick a favorite,” or, given the way this trip was going, one for Drift to buy for him, “I think it would be one of these.” He walked over to a shelf with more of the incense/oil combination lamps. These had wicks arranged on multiple levels of a warm brown mineral with yellow-gold flecks running through it.

“Yeah?” Drift carried the red agate over to look at the ones Ratchet had pointed out. “With the gold? Pretty.”

“Imagine it lit — the whole thing would sparkle with the movement of the flames, but it would be subtle. And,” Ratchet added grudgingly, since he knew where the thing would wind up, “it would look good with the Reslora fern-wood.”

Drift smiled brightly, genuinely happy, as he picked up one of the golden brown oil lamps and took both it and the red agate over to the seller to buy them. He wasn’t, Ratchet fondly grumbled to himself, even being subtle about it.

Whether Ratchet showing an interest in the oil lamp had been enough to satisfy Drift, or he was running out of space to carry things and didn’t really want to deal with figuring out how to haul a ton of stuff back to the ship, Drift was much less pushy as they continued looking around the market. There was a lot more artwork, paintings, prints, and sculptures, but Drift seemed content to simply admire them and move on. He didn’t even try to convince Ratchet that he needed any of the decorative bookends to hold his datapads at the stall selling laser-etched metal cutouts designed for exactly that purpose.

In the end, it was actually Ratchet who was responsible for their final purchases. They’d found a corner of the market focusing on more practical items for mechanicals — polishing supplies, weather-resistant tarps, that sort of thing — when he spotted a stall with an assortment of mats and pads. Most of them looked like they were meant to improve traction and comfort when standing on them, but Ratchet immediately thought of another use.

“They’re big enough,” Drift responded to Ratchet’s suggestion that they could be laid down on their berths to provide a bit of comfortable padding. He made it sound like a concession, but his field betrayed his enthusiasm as  _ Ratchet _ pulled  _ him _ into the booth. 

There were several different styles available, with minimal differences between them. All of them were tough vinyl filled with a gel cushioning, about as thick as three of Ratchet’s fingers, but there were several different colors and surface textures to choose from. While Drift immediately gravitated toward a dark red and tested the different textures for one he liked, Ratchet knew he wanted something smooth and concentrated more on picking out a color.

This was pure indulgence, he thought, less bothered by the idea now than when Drift had pushed him to pick out a lamp. He didn’t need it. But it was nice, and it reminded him a little of the softer, squishier recharge berths with adjustable temperature settings medical students and doctors had once had access to.

He tried to remember what colors he might have picked out then, only to realize he’d deleted many of those files at some point. He had flashes of talking with friends and visitors and the very occasional lover, but he felt disconnected from the spaces they occupied. He wasn’t sure if the scenes were in his apartments or the others’.

Maybe that was for the best.

He’d never really thought of himself as a browns or golds person. White was clean and restful to a medic; brown was the color of rust. But the alien sunset had been shades of gold, orange, and dark blue, which were then repeated on the bug-lamp, while the shelf and oil lamp were both brown, with flecks of gold in the lamp. Keeping with the theme, Ratchet decided on a smooth, dark burnished gold pad.

This time he did his own haggling, and paid for his own purchase. He didn’t have room in his subspace for the rolled up mat, but it was manageable to tuck under his arm while Drift wrapped up his transaction. “Which one did you get?” he asked once they were done and the proprietor was busy rolling up the red mat.

“The hatched diamond,” Drift said, pointing to an example in green hanging beside his helm. The pattern was only slightly raised above the surface of the pad, the sort of thing that would barely be noticeable when laying on it. It added visual interest to the solid color, but Ratchet was willing to bet Drift had been more interested in the way it would facilitate rolling off the pad quickly without slipping. “I like the color you picked.”

“It goes with the other things,” Ratchet shrugged. “Though I’m not going to be able to carry any more things, after this.” Especially given how he’d need to carry the shelving unit in his ambulance form’s passenger compartment.

“It’s still a bit early to head back, but… There was a little café inside the spaceport near the landing pad; we can wait there with what won’t fit in our subspace.” Drift looked all too pleased with himself about everything.

“Works for me. Did they have engex?”

“Probably?” Drift shrugged. “It’s  _ Hedonia. _ But I didn’t check.”

“I’ll just have to ask when we get there.” Because one more drink would be nice right about now, even if the shopping hadn’t been  _ that  _ stressful and Drift had only  _ mostly  _ taken over decorating his habsuite. “Let’s go.”

They wound their way through the crowd, continuing to window shop on the way out because they could. Drift bought a foil cone of rust sticks, which he offered to Ratchet to munch on as they walked. It was a nice treat, and one Ratchet was happy to indulge in. Between them both they finished off the cone just before returning to the park entrance. 

Ratchet transformed first, letting Drift take care of loading the shelves and the two rolled up mats before joining him on the road. It was almost a shame, heading back to the spaceport, even if it wasn’t quite time to leave yet. Ratchet hadn’t expected to enjoy the time off the ship so much.

The café was, as Drift had said, right next to the landing platforms. It was an outdoor café and the sign (in six different languages) said they could seat themselves, so Ratchet pulled up right next to an empty table so Drift could pull the things out of his passenger compartment. 

A drone flew over and pressed a button on the table to display the menu, then hovered patiently. Ratchet scanned the options, then pinged his selection over to it. “Did you want anything?”

“Just some gold disks,” Drift pinged his own order. More candy.

Ratchet smiled as he transformed, imagining the disks rattling around at the bottom of Drift’s backpack. “You don’t have to go chasing down any stragglers if everyone isn’t back on time, do you?”

“I will, yeah.” Drift picked out a chair that was the right size and shape for him. “For now, though, I choose to believe there won’t be any stragglers for me to chase down.” 

“We can hope.” The drone returned promptly with their order, and Ratchet held up his glass. “Cheers.”

Drift held up a gold disk candy and clinked it against Ratchet’s glass. “Cheers.”

They wound up joined by a few others while they waited for their departure time. Mechs came back in twos and threes to loiter in or nearby the cafe, some burdened with their own purchases from successful shopping trips. Ratchet’s new shelving unit was by far one of the largest things anyone had bought, and it drew a fair amount of attention, whether he wanted it to or not.

“Pretty,” Pipes said, admiring it. He looked at Drift as he spoke. “I guess organic materials aren’t against the rules if the third in command does it, right?”

“As long as they’re inert and won’t grow or reproduce, organic materials aren’t against the rules at all,” Drift said indulgently. “And the shelf is Ratchet’s.”

“Liar,” Sunstreaker drawled, much more relaxed than he usually was. Both he and Bob gleamed in the shifting light. 

“He’s not lying,” Ratchet said, though he couldn’t blame anyone for the assumption. It wasn’t exactly his usual style. “He helped pick it out, but it’s mine.”

“We’re decorating his habsuite,” Drift said.

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Sunstreaker shot back, making Trailcutter (barely sober enough to recognize the human phrase and remember why it was funny) burst out laughing.

“How are we supposed to have pictures before we even get it back to the ship?”

“You’re not.” Sunstreaker snapped his fingers at Bob, who was sniffing around the table, looking for crumbs. “But this isn’t the first post I’ve shared with you, Ratchet.” He sniffed. “I know better than to take  _ Drift’s _ word for it, even if he is your boyfriend.”

Trust Sunstreaker to know what did and didn’t fit his aesthetic, even if the mech had never seen his living quarters at any of those posts. “Take  _ my  _ word for it then, because that’s what we’re doing.”

“Clearly you’re thrilled.”

“I’m… cautiously optimistic,” Ratchet went with, since it was a bit pointless to say he thought that decorating was pointless when they’d already bought the things. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try.”

Sunstreaker shrugged; that was clearly the limit of his interest in the conversation. Pipes, though, was still looking over the shelf, and the two pads. “Where did you get these? I didn’t see anything like it in any of the gift shops I went to.”

“There was an open-air market in a park that we went to,” Drift answered, nibbling on the last of his candy. Ratchet hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice if he’d stashed any in his subspace, and wondered how he planned to sneak the loose candy past Ultra Magnus’ contraband search.

“A lot of what they had that wasn’t purely decorative was tailored to organics, but there was a section with mechanical essentials.”

“They look like yoga mats.”

“I suppose they do.” Rolled up the way they were for transport, Ratchet could see the similarity. “But we got them to put on our recharge slabs, not the floor.”

“Ooooh! That’s a good idea.” 

“Next time we’re on leave,” Drift said, before anyone could suggest running back to the market to get their own. “Or you can bribe Perceptor to make something for you.”

That was met with a few grumbles, but no one tried to make an argument of it.

The conversation moved on after that, but stayed within the same vein of talking about what they’d done with their leave and what they’d be sure to do next time. Pipes had found a theme park of some sort and spent most of his cycle there. To Ratchet’s surprise, even Sunstreaker opened up a little about trying to find the perfect detailer, which had proven unexpectedly complicated by Bob, who kept trying to eat the rags and other tools. He’d finally found a neutral Cybertronian with experience with mechanimals who’d agreed to wash and polish both of them.

Drift did a headcount as the shuttle arrived and grinned. “Oh good. No keelhauling this batch. All aboard!”

Some mechs had to be carried in by their friends, and discussions of how leave had been fun but they were looking forward to recharge dominated on the trip back. Ratchet mostly just listened, contemplating his own options silently. He supposed he could go to sleep too. He was on-duty, technically, but only in a standby capacity. He just needed to be available in case something happened. They couldn’t tackle decorating his quarters right away; if Ratchet was effectively on standby, Drift was going to be actively on-duty, as the only senior officer who was on the ship.

Ultra Magnus was grumpily standing slightly apart from the group eagerly waiting to go down to the planet when they disembarked. Drift padded over to talk to him and after a short exchange, Magnus stomped into the shuttle. That seemed to serve as the cue for those waiting and they loaded up.

“I told Ultra Magnus I’d take care of you mechs’ purchase inspection,” Drift announced to the returning crew; several mechs groaned. “Ratchet, you first, since you need to get to the medbay. Everyone else line up.”

Doing this with Drift was a lot faster than Ultra Magnus would have been. He kept things on the level of voluntary declaration, at least with Ratchet. Whatever Ultra Magnus thought about Drift, he did have experience as an officer overseeing a return from leave, and Ratchet was sure unruly, drunk Decepticons had been harder to manage. It did mean he needed to arrange with someone else to help him unload the shelving unit and foam pad from his passenger space into his quarters, however, and that meant waiting until some of the others were cleared.

Luckily, only a few mechs behind him in line, Pipes came over and volunteered before Ratchet could even ask. “I can help you with that, if you’d like,” he said, steady enough on his feet that Ratchet wasn’t worried about whether he actually could help. “Should I follow you to your habsuite?”

“I’d appreciate that,” Ratchet said, and together they set off down the hall. Pipes didn’t transform, since he didn’t have a reason to be driving, and Ratchet went slowly so he could keep up. “You’ve been to a few different alien worlds now. Are they all you’d hoped they’d be?”

“Harrowing, dangerous and bizzare? Sure.” Pipes looked over at Ratchet, amusement flickering in his EM field. “Except Hedonia. That place is great.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Ratchet had had a very good time, even if it hadn’t gone how he’d expected. “I’d like to do it again without waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Other shoe?”

“Human expression,” Ratchet explained. “It’d be nice to go on leave like that again without worrying about where it’s about to go horrifically wrong. Not that it was an active worry, for the most part,” because it actually hadn’t been, but, “Still. Given our track record, I was pleasantly surprised.”

“Ah. Okay.” Pipes trotted a few steps. “Yeah. I can see that. I wasn’t worried, but then I didn’t really think about our ‘track’ record.”

“That’s just as well.” It was a hard habit to set aside, and if Pipes was able to let go and live in the moment, more power to him. Ratchet just hoped it wouldn’t get him killed. “Here — unload this so I can transform, would you?” he said when they reached his door.

“Will do.” Pipes was careful with the wooden shelving unit — more careful than he needed to be, as though not certain the organic thing would hold up — and a few kliks later, Ratchet was able to transform.

“You take one end, I’ll take the other,” he said once he’d set the rolled up pad inside the door. The shelf was much easier to move with two people, though Ratchet didn’t ask Pipes to do more than help him get it over to the side of the room where it would be out of the way until Drift could come by to help him set things up properly. “Thank you.”

“No problem, Ratchet! I’m going to go recharge.” 

Pipes waved as he left. Ratchet waved back, then shut the door and brought the pad over to his berth. Recharge sounded like a good idea, and he didn’t need to wait for Drift to try out this particular purchase.

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	21. Chapter 21

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Ratchet was called in later to deal with a couple of mechs in the second group returning from Hedonia who’d come back with mild injuries, including the captain. Then he was called in again to deal with Ultra Magnus, who’d come back unconscious and in alt form. Other than the blow to his dignity, he hadn’t been injured at all, and Ratchet had triggered his transformation to get him back into his primary form, then left him to sleep it off in a medberth.

To everyone’s surprise, Ultra Magnus had decided against doing a shipwide inspection and been quiet and contemplative since waking up. It was decidedly odd, according to Drift, when he came by (with brackets and sticky pads from Perceptor) to help Ratchet arrange his quarters.

“Odd in a good way, or a bad one?” Ratchet asked, remembering how stressed the second in command had been leading up to Hedonia. “He hasn’t flown apart at the seams yet, at least.”

“If it weren’t, you know,  _ Ultra Magnus,” _ Drift answered, positioning the bug-lamp on the shelf to maximize the amount of light and show off the projection across the wall behind it, “I’d say it was odd in a good way. He  _ seems _ more relaxed. He didn’t even bother inspecting everything I bought; he said he  _ trusts me. _ You didn’t happen to check for reprogramming while he was in the medbay, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. There wasn’t a reason to.” Ratchet had checked that the armor was intact, and that there weren’t any system errors in either it or Ultra Magnus’ core self, but nothing had thrown up any red flags. “The only thing wrong with him was the aftereffects of far too much unmoderated highgrade in systems not used to compensating for that sort of thing.”

“I don’t seriously think Ultra Magnus was reprogrammed,” Drift assured him. He turned on the light — apparently they’d had some adapters in storage that fit it and the other lamp so there were no problems hooking them up to the  _ Lost Light’s _ power grid. “But you have to admit he’s acting odd.”

“For him, yes. But maybe it will turn out to be a good thing.” Ratchet stepped back to better take in the effect of the lamp. It looked odd too, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get used to it. Combined with the painting of the alien sunset, it made his quarters look very… well, alien, but also peaceful. “Did you know Swerve came by to see if he was still sleeping it off?”

“I didn’t.” Drift nudged the oil lamp into place and lit the wick with an electric lighter Ratchet didn’t remember getting, sending shadows dancing through the space. The basic, utilitarian lamp was set up behind it, to be convenient to reach for while in the berth. They’d gotten rid of the wheeled table Ratchet had been using for those few things he needed a flat surface for. Drift stepped back to stand with Ratchet, admiring their work. “Swerve was the one taking Magnus out and showing him around. Maybe they bonded?”

“Maybe. Ultra Magnus had already left when Swerve came by, so I didn’t get to see them together.” It would be an unlikely friendship if they  _ had  _ bonded, but it wasn’t Ratchet’s place to judge. “Anyway, you know how Swerve talks. Apparently Ultra Magnus said some things to him while he was drunk. He wouldn’t tell me  _ exactly  _ what he said — seemed to think Ultra Magnus had told him in confidence — but he said enough to make me think he’s been struggling to adapt to this new way of life, too.”

“War made things simple,” Drift agreed softly, then changed the subject. “What do you think?” He waved at Ratchet’s transformed habsuite.

“Very not-simple,” Ratchet responded. “It does look good all together though, doesn’t it?”

“I think so.” Drift’s field was smug. “Now all you need is a print of one of those bugs at the cafe hanging above your recharge berth.”

“And why would I need something like that?” 

Drift shrugged. “I suppose you don’t. But it’d be fun, and thematic. Have you ever seen those photograph-print collages? Where you put prints on a wall, kind of haphazardly, just to look at? I’ve been thinking of one for my habsuite.”

“I’ve seen them before,” Ratchet nodded, thinking of the one First Aid had in his quarters made up of Wreckers memorabilia. “Don’t they tend to look sort of cluttered?”

“I suppose it depends on how you arrange things. But…” Drift’s optics wandered over to the wall they were discussing, the still blank one over his berth. “Stars are cluttered. Grains of sand are cluttered. Memories and thoughts and feelings are cluttered. The act of choosing to arrange them in a specific way seems inherently ordered to me, even if the end result still appears cluttered to the outside observer.”

“Uh huh. Well, start in your room and leave mine alone,” Ratchet huffed. “I’m still adjusting to all of this!”

“Alright. Still planning on going to Swerve’s theme night?”

“Ye~es,” Ratchet said, eyeing Drift suspiciously. That had been far too easy, and he didn’t trust it one bit. “Are you going?”

“I can. I don’t think I’d be much help for Name Your Own Drink Night though,” Drift chuckled.

“‘Drink’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘intoxicant’,” Ratchet pointed out, “but that probably is what everyone else will be doing. If you’d rather pass, that’s fine — just don’t sneak back in here and start covering the wall with photos.”

Amusement permeated Drift’s EM field, even as he shot Ratchet a wounded look. “I wouldn’t.”

“You’d better not.” Ratchet reached over and flicked the end of one of Drift’s finials playfully. “Did you already set up your room?”

“Not yet. I just have the painting to hang and the oil lamp to place, though.” Drift pointed to the wall above the berth. “I think I’ll put the snails up there.”

“Because that’s just where pictures of alien bugs belong, huh?”

“Because if I do create a photo-print collage of my own, I’d want it over by my meditation mat.” Drift grinned. “I’ll walk with you to Swerve’s, at least.”

“Works for me.”

Leave had had its usual effect on the general temperament of the crew. The mechs they passed were more relaxed and cheerful than before Hedonia. There were more mechs going to Swerve’s than usual, and when they got to the door, they found the bar fairly crowded. Looked like theme night was already a big success.

Which would only encourage Swerve to do more of them.

“I think I will bow out,” Drift said. “No one will have fun with my suggestion, so better not take up a seat. I’ll go see if Rodimus wants to switch shifts though, so he can come.”

“‘If’?” Ratchet laughed. “I think we both know him better than that. See you later — don’t work too hard.”

“Who? Me?” Drift laughed. He squeezed Ratchet’s hand fondly (when had they reached out to each other? Ratchet wasn’t sure) and pulled the medic into a brief hug. Ratchet held onto Drift for just a few extra nanokliks when he went to pull away, smiling quietly at the bright surge of happiness in Drift’s field. “See you later.”

Ratchet turned to the bar once Drift was out of sight, catching several people near the door staring. “Oh, come on,” he said, shoving past them. “It’s not like you’ve never seen a hug before.”

With no one he wanted to sit specifically with right now, he pushed his way directly to the bar. Swerve had gotten rid of the stools that were normally there, probably to encourage mechs to circulate and let people come up to order more easily. 

Swerve himself was busy though, so Skids was the one who came over to take Ratchet’s order. “Need a rundown on how this works? Also,” he nudged a plate closer to Ratchet, “free lob ball team decals. Declare your allegiance and get a free drink.”

“Free drink, huh?” It was the only reason Ratchet would even consider wearing one of the things. He didn’t have any love of the sport, though as he thought about it he realized he’d wind up defending his stance all night if he didn’t pick a team, and he didn’t feel like dealing with everyone trying to persuade him. Besides, free drink! “This one then,” he said, selecting the decal for Team Mustache. “Medic solidarity.”

“Perfect.” Skids passed him one of the black-outlined-in-orange mustache decals, and— “This one too,” —a blue  _ Duly Appointed Enforcer of Team Ref! _ one as well. He tapped his own Sabertooth Cybercats decal, which had the Team Ref decal displayed directly below it in demonstration. The Ultra Magnus blue lettering almost blended in with Skids’ native paint job. “Want me to explain Design Your Own Drink Night, or figure it out on your own?”

“Go ahead and give me the rundown,” Ratchet said, trying to decide where to place his new decals. “Does this one mean Ultra Magnus has finally caved and agreed to be the referee?”

“Yup!” Skids was obviously pleased by that. “The first game time will be announced tomorrow. We pushed for it to be today, for the event, but Magnus is taking his time putting together a schedule that ‘won’t be disruptive’ to normal duty schedules. So, Design Your Own Drink Night,” he gestured to a flatscreen that had been installed behind the bar. Currently, it was displaying lines of text like  _ Whirl’s Happy Place _ and  _ Cosmic Voyage _ and  _ Brainstorm’s Ultimate Mystery! _ “You design your own drink, obviously, then your custom drink gets added to that menu. Drinks on that menu are half price. Take your drink, enjoy, and come tell us what you think. At the end of the night, the top five get added to the menu permanently, and the designers get a prize.”

“I take it any name is fair game, and not an indicator of who designed the drink,” Ratchet said, noting that there were currently five different drinks with Whirl’s name somewhere in them despite the mech in question not actually being present.

“Yup.” Skids grinned toothily. “If a winning drink is named after a crewmember who didn’t design it, the named mech gets a chance to rename the drink if he wants. So you have one free drink now…”

“I’ll use it this round,” Ratchet said, not wanting to forget he had it. “Start me off with one of those Happy Places while I come up with something.” 

“Coming right up.” Skids started collecting ingredients. He pulled down a tall, hexagonal glass and carefully started layering several strong engex flavors into it, dividing each layer of energon with one of a syrup. When it was a little less than a finger width from the top, he dropped a dense gummy into the cup, which disturbed the layers and swirled them together as it sank, and immediately started dissolving into the liquid. “Evaluation survey,” he placed a flimsy and a graphite stylus next to the drink. “Enjoy your drink!” 

“Thanks.” Ratchet took the cup, the survey, and his decals and moved away from the bar, not even waiting until he’d found a seat to taste the concoction. The first sip was delicious, though he knew the flavor would change as the layers continued to mix. 

He didn’t see any of his usual tablemates as he looked around the bar, but there was no missing Fortress Maximus hunched over in the corner, trying (and failing) to blend into the walls. Ratchet smiled and headed for his table, glad to see him attempting to socialize. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, gesturing to an open seat.

Fort Max looked at him, a little panicked, but Smokescreen leaned out of the shadow created by the warden’s bulk with a smile. “Sure, Ratch. We’d love to have you.”

Unsurprised to find Fort Max had found himself a chaperone of sorts, Ratchet slid into the chair and set everything he’d been carrying down. “Where did you two decide to put these?” he asked, tapping the lob ball decals and looking over both their frames, confident that Smokescreen, at least, would be wearing them.

“Here,” Smokescreen twisted to show off the Team Mustache decal and Team Ref slogan proudly displayed over one of the numbers on his right doorwing, while Fort Max held out his hand to show the Happy Weasels decal on his left wrist, where the Team Ref words almost blended into the blue plating.

“Hmm.” Ratchet looked down at his arms, wondering where the decals would be easiest to remove later. “Did you pick Team Mustache for the players, or their odds to win?”

“Pfft. The others are losers,” Smokescreen bragged with a grin. Fortress Maximus just shrugged; he’d probably picked his out of some guilty desire to show support for Whirl. “And yeah, between the captain and Ambulon, they do have the best odds for winning the first match, though Whirl picked a good team too.”

“To hear him talk, he makes the team.” Deciding that it would be easier to get the decals off of glass rather than paint, Ratchet went ahead and put a team logo on either side of his Autobrand, prominently displayed on his windshield. “Though I suppose we’ll have to wait and see if he’s right.”

“Whirl  _ talks _ like he makes the team,” Smokescreen agreed. “Rewind is starting to really amp up the Whirl vs Ambulon fight to the death aspect to get people hyped for the game, but he really did choose a good team.” He grinned wickedly. “Want to place a bet?”

“What’s Perceptor betting on?” Fort Max rumbled.

“Smart mech,” Ratchet said approvingly. When in doubt, following Perceptor’s lead was a good bet in and of itself. 

Smokescreen shot both of them wounded looks. “He put two bets in: one on the Happy Weasels, and the second on the first game devolving into an all out brawl.”

“Pfft.” The latter sounded likely to Ratchet, but he wasn’t sure Ultra Magnus would let everyone get carried away enough for it to count. “Will I be banished from your table if I do the same and bet on the Happy Weasels?”

Smokescreen’s wounded look looked extra wounded at that. “Traitor. I will be happy to take your money when you turn out to be dead wrong.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Ratchet shot back, and they settled on a (relatively small, he had just been on a shopping spree) figure to put on the books. 

“You realize you’re betting against your own team,” Smokescreen pointed out, but Ratchet waved that off easily. He hadn’t picked his decal out of any deep, personal feelings, after all.

“Just put it down,” he said, going back to his Happy Place. The flavor had developed into something with a slightly cloying edge; the sort that would be better if he was already drunk, as opposed to working on getting there. “What about you, Fort Max?”

“I think I’ll refrain from betting,” he said with a shrug. “I’m going to be busy during the game. I don’t want to deprive any of the relief guards of the chance to see it.”

“If that brawl winds up happening, you’ll definitely be busy,” Ratchet mused. “Not that there’s much room to put anyone else in the brig even if they need time to cool down.”

“Just the one extra cell,” Fort Max confirmed. “Not enough to even temporarily incarcerate a single team, let alone any fans who decide to start fights.”

Not for the first time, Ratchet wondered about taking some of the more cooperative prisoners and letting them “earn” better living quarters. There wasn’t much salvage work left with the larger ship sold and the smaller one successfully stripped, but there were other tasks they could be set to with supervision. Ratchet wrote himself a memo to take a closer look at that later, when he wasn’t supposed to be relaxing and having a good time. “Anyone who gets hurt fighting will wind up in the medbay first, at least.” And boy, would he ever make them regret it!

“Oooh. Ratchet’s getting real,” Smokescreen snickered. 

“Consider yourself lucky you didn’t make the team. That bashed doorwing was minor compared to what could have happened,” Ratchet huffed. What was with everyone on this ship and their determination to get themselves banged up or shot full of holes?

“But it’s fun,” he whined back before shrugging him off. “I’m busy enough right now I might have dropped off of the team even if I’d made it. Rung is a  _ slavedriver.” _

“Oh? What’s he got you doing? Dusting the model ships?”

“Sewing bean bag chairs and painting walls.” Smokescreen snickered. “You’re not the only one redecorating after Hedonia.”

“You did get the materials you needed for the library then.” Jokes aside, that was good news. “I’m looking forward to seeing it when you finish.”

“So am I, even if Rung stomped on my decorating suggestions.”

“Rung wants me to socialize more, and suggested your book club,” Fort Max said, looking down at the table. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

“Like I said before, it’s not for everyone,” Ratchet said, remembering Fort Max’s suspicions about Rung using the club as a disguise for group therapy sessions. “There’s no obligation to keep coming once you start though, if you decided to give it a one-time try.”

“Maybe I will. I heard about your current assignment.” 

“No teasing,” Smokescreen put in quickly. 

“You mean, you  _ don’t  _ want to talk about it?” Ratchet gave Smokescreen an arch look, then shrugged. “Fine.”

“You haven’t found any mistakes yet,” the red and blue mech said smugly at Ratchet’s easy acquiescence. “Everything  _ medically accurate  _ so far?”

“Can’t talk about it and not talk about it at the same time,” Ratchet said with a bit of a growl, because yes,  _ damn it,  _ the thing was medically accurate up to the point he’d read, and he was running out of book. “Pick one.”

_ “Teasing _ is different than  _ talking.” _

“Really? I haven’t noticed a difference in what you’ve said.”

Fort Max placed one massive arm between them and pushed Smokescreen back slightly. “No fighting,” he told them both. “Pick a different topic.”

Smokescreen slouched in his chair, letting himself be pushed back. “Is it true Drift’s changing his optic color?” he asked after a moment.

“Where did you hear that?” Ratchet knew Drift had been talking to certain people about possibly changing his optics, but he wanted some idea of how much Smokescreen already knew before confirming anything.

“Chromedome was saying it, said he heard it from Rewind.” 

“Red Alert had heard it as well,” Fort Max added. He didn’t seem to have an opinion, though Ratchet could well imagine what Red Alert had said about it.

“Yeah,” Smokescreen said, “I didn’t think anyone at  _ this _ table would jump to any of the conclusions Chromedome was making.”

“I take it he wasn’t happy with the idea?” Ratchet guessed.

“Despite obvious examples to the contrary,” Smokescreen nodded in Fort Max’s direction, “a lot of mechs still associate red optics with Decepticons, and with Drift’s history…”

“Drift’s history,” Ratchet couldn’t say it had nothing to do with his desire to change his optics, because of course it did, but not because he was “going ‘Con” or any such nonsense, “is relevant because he had red optics for a long time, not because he was a Decepticon during that time. It’s not about the ideology, it’s about a sense of personal identity — like your doorwings.”

“Makes sense to me,” Fortress Maximus, rumbled. “The rules for keeping prisoners forbid changing their optic colors, except with on record verbal consent.”

“I don’t mean anything by it,” Smokescreen defended. “It’s just what Chromedome was saying.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Ratchet said, since despite the condemning words, there hadn’t been any accusation or suspicion in Smokescreen’s field. “But since there are rumors going around, and some people are jumping to conclusions, it’s worth clarifying. Yes, he’s thinking about changing them, though he hasn’t said anything to me yet about a concrete decision one way or the other.”

“If someone asks me about it, that’s what I’ll say about it, then.”

“Thank you. He knows it won’t be a popular move with some people if he does do it, which is part of why he’s talking about it first.” Ratchet was nearing the bottom of his drink, which had gone very thick with all the syrup. “I’ve already told him his comfort is what’s most important to me.”

“Well I suppose that is pretty important.”

“I rather thought so,” Ratchet said, fond smile turning to a contemplative frown as he finished off the dregs in his cup. “Hmm. I think I’m going to have to give this one mixed feedback and try something else.” And come up with his own drink! He’d let himself get distracted by the conversation. “Did either of you put a drink up on the menu?”

“No,” Fort Max said.

“I have,” Smokescreen said with a grin. “It’s supposed to be anonymous, though.”

“You don’t have to tell me which one is yours.” If Smokescreen wanted to keep things a secret, Ratchet would just pick something at random, and wouldn’t tell him what he came up with either. “But if you’d like something else while I’m up, you need to tell me what to order.”

“I’d like a Whirl Trap.” 

“Tart Lithium Revenge.”

“Got it.” Ratchet stood and made his way back to the bar, contemplating what sort of drink he’d like to see that didn’t already exist. Color, texture, taste, strength… There were a lot of factors to consider, and not all of them were ones he usually bothered with. Maybe he could try to recreate a version of the simple, straightforward sludge he and Ironhide had enjoyed so much of back on— “Oh, really!” He glared at the menu board and the drink proudly proclaiming itself as Ratchet’s Rusty Wrench. “Whose idea was that?!”

“Anonymous,” Swerve sing-songed as he came over. “So what did one plate say to the other?”

“That it hadn’t had enough to drink yet for those kind of jokes to be funny?”

“Lunch is on me,” Swerve delivered the punchline without any sign of being bothered by Ratchet’s lack of appreciation. “See a drink you’d like to try?”

“In the interest of seeing whether or not that’s another bad joke,” Ratchet jabbed at his name on the menu, “give me one of those. And here,” he handed over his feedback sheet for the Happy Place. “It wasn’t a bad drink, but I didn’t drink it fast enough.”

The minibot nodded, gathering just three ingredients and a short, shot-sized glass. “That seems to be the consensus for that one.”

The engex and iron oxide powder were mixed together in a shaker, then poured into the glass. A cube of dry ice made the concoction hiss angrily and spit plumes of sublimated gas.

“Cute,” Ratchet said dryly, though he had to admit he’d probably enjoy it. He put in the orders for the other two, then asked, “What do you have in the way of liquefied hydrocarbons back there?”

“All the basics — methane, ethane, propane, butane, etc. — plus some exotic alkynes.” He slid the shot glass over to Ratchet. 

“Take whichever’s the thickest at room temperature, then mix it with unfiltered lowgrade, copper oxide, two shots of that battery acid highgrade Whirl drinks straight, and cover the surface with a film of machine oil.”

“Got it! And its name?” Swerve leaned forward eagerly.

“Call it a Clogged Filter,” Ratchet grinned.

“Will do!” 

Ratchet went ahead and downed the Rusty Wrench while Swerve prepared the other drinks. It was, frustratingly, fantastic, and he grudgingly admitted as much when Swerve asked for his feedback. “If that one makes it into the top five, I might just have to leave my name on it.”

“I’ll let you know if it does.” Swerve set the Whirl Trap and the Tart Lithium Revenge next to the truly unappetizing looking Clogged Filter on a tray. “Are you hoping to get in the top five with yours?” He sounded a tad skeptical, and Ratchet couldn’t blame him. 

“Honestly? I expect most of the comments on it to be awful, and I’m looking forward to hearing them.” Ratchet took a quick sip to test how close it came to his memory and grimaced. “Yeah, if that manages any kind of popularity, it’ll be on pure, twisted nostalgia.” 

“Wanna try making something else?” Swerve offered.

“Nah.” Ratchet shook his head and picked up the tray, Clogged Filter and all. “I’m going to enjoy this.” Starting with the looks on his companion’s faces when he brought it back to the table.

Which did not disappoint…

“What is  _ that?”  _ Smokescreen asked, horrified.

“That,” Ratchet said proudly, retaking his seat, “is some idiot’s reinterpretation of end-of-the-supply-line swill.”

“And you bought it on  _ purpose?” _

“Why not? It’s not going to make it onto the menu, so I thought I’d indulge in the novelty while I could. Cheers.” Ratchet raised the rough tumbler Swerve had mixed his drink in and took a long gulp. “Ahhh. It’s almost as bad as I remember.”

“What’s almost as bad as you remember it?”

Ratchet looked up to find Brainstorm standing beside him, sinisterly bubbling green drink in hand. “This,” he said simply, holding up the Clogged Filter. “How’s yours?”

“Alright. Not exactly living up to the name, but since I’m not the one who came up with it, that’s hardly surprising.  _ I  _ would make sure any drink with ‘mystery’ in the title really was a mystery if I’d invented it!” Brainstorm nudged Ratchet’s foot with his, and after exchanging a quick glance with Smokescreen, Ratchet moved over to let him join them. 

“So I never did get to ask you how it felt to get shot by the BlastCap 9000,” Brainstorm said, rather callously, to Fort Max as he slid into the seat. 

“Brainstorm…” Smokescreen’s warning was underscored by a growl from his engine.

But Fortress Maximus, after a nanoklik of surprise, actually smiled at the engineer’s brashness. “I don’t remember getting hit by it,” he answered honestly. “It didn’t register.”

“Oh.” Brainstorm was definitely disappointed by that.

“I’m sure it was very painful,” Fort Max said. 

“Given the damage it did, I’m sure it was too,” Ratchet said. “It took a while to repair that one.”

“Yes, yes,” Brainstorm waved that off. “I have the medical report. That’s not new data.” He sighed, slipping the Mystery drink’s straw under his mask to drink. “Oh well. Cheers.”

“I thought you were working on a new project anyway?” Ratchet asked, trying to remember what Perceptor had called it when he’d been complaining about being interrupted by it. “Some sort of pasta maker?”

“Spaghettification Gun™,” Brainstorm corrected automatically. “Which is just one of many projects I’m currently procrastinating on while I finish up the NanoBot™ Hunter-Killer Drones. I was having issues with gravitational directionality. Making the singularity is pretty easy, but stabilizing it so it doesn’t evaporate, and containing and directing the gravity, have proven to be real challenges.” Instead of being discouraged, he sounded eager to overcome those obstacles. He was practically rubbing his hands together while lightning flashed in the background.

Ratchet took another swig of his drink, scowling at the prospect of the weapon as much as the taste. “And what sort of horrific injuries is that going to create for me to fix?” 

“It’ll just rip the target apart into a thin stream of molecules that gets sucked into the gun’s singularity!” 

“Oh. So, no injuries, because it does its own cleanup and completely eliminates any potential patient.” Lovely. “Maybe you shouldn’t go back to it after you finish the NanoBots.”

“But it’s perfect! Once I overcome the problems of evaporation and directional gravity Perceptor’ll  _ have _ to admit I’m a genius!” Brainstorm’s optics sparkled. He put the ever-present briefcase down on the table and leaned over it excitedly. “Do you know how hard it is to  _ create _ a singularity?”

“I thought you just said it was easy?”

“It is! Smash a few atoms together at high enough velocities and they make a black hole just fine. Anyone can do it.  _ Humans _ can do it.”

“Which means the rest is the impressive bit,” Smokescreen said, sounding rather skeptical. “If you can make it work.”

“Right!” Brainstorm gestured toward the red and blue mech with his straw. “Directional gravity is probably the biggest hurdle, since gravity naturally extends outward from the source in all directions, simultaneously and infinitely. I can probably solve the evaporation issue just by making a singularity big enough that it takes a while to evaporate. Technically, that would mean that the singularity would need to replaced every so often, but maybe in three or four thousand vorns I’ll have solved it and then POW!” He dropped the straw to clap his hands together. “Infinite shot count!”

“This singularity is like a black hole, right?” Fort Max surprised them all by speaking up. “I thought nothing escaped from a black hole. How can it be evaporating?”

“Nothing escapes the  _ event horizon _ of a black hole. That doesn’t mean energy doesn’t escape.” Brainstorm retrieved his straw and waved it a little dismissively. “And since energy equals mass, lose enough of it and  _ poof!” _

“That doesn’t really make it easier to understand,” Smokescreen said, voicing what Ratchet suspected they were all thinking. “Do all black holes have that problem?”

“Of course they do, but with enough mass to hold galaxies together, the big ones aren’t exactly going anywhere anytime soon.” The engineer stabbed at his drink a few times with the straw. “Ha! Gotcha!” Happily, he pulled the impaled ball of some sort of gelled treat out and regarded it. “I seem to have a problem.”

“Several problems,” Ratchet drawled, “though how you’re going to eat that should be considerably easier to solve than making a portable singularity that doesn’t evaporate.”

“Oh I’ve already figured out how to make it portable. I just need to make sure that the gun strips off all the electrons before sucking matter into the singularity so it maintains a positive charge. I love plasma.” He held the candy up to regard it. “Maybe if I tear it into pieces?” He carefully squished it between two fingers.

“You’re going to make a mess,” Ratchet warned, and not just in regard to the food. “I suppose asking Perceptor for help is completely out of the question?”

“It wouldn’t be as impressive if he didn’t figure it out on his own,” Fort Max said, a hint of a smile hiding behind his drink. 

“Good thing we’re no help whatsoever then,” Smokescreen laughed.

“I wouldn’t help with an endeavor so ill-advised anyway,” Perceptor sniffed from behind Ratchet. 

Brainstorm’s wings waggled happily, almost hitting Ratchet on the head as he turned. “Perceptor! Hi! I was just telling them about the Spaghettification Gun™!”

“Really? It looked to me like you were failing to explain a concept as simple as how a black hole evaporates to your rather disdainful audience.” Perceptor took a sip of his drink, which looked a little too much like a Whirl Trap for Ratchet’s comfort. Watching the scientist struggling to focus his visible optic made him wonder just how many drinks he’d had already.

“We’re not disdainful,” Smokescreen protested.

“Yeah, just oblivious.”

“And getting more obliviated by the klik,” Ratchet said, taking a swig for emphasis. If he was going to have to listen to a drunken science argument, he wanted to be drunk, too. “How would  _ you  _ explain evaporating black holes?”

Perceptor looked at the table, then finished off his drink in a single gulp. “It really is quite simple: one of the properties of space is that  _ pairs _ of subatomic particles are randomly created from the fabric of spacetime. Usually, this amounts to nothing, since the two particles, being a matter-antimatter pair, annihilate each other almost immediately.” Perceptor swayed slightly and leaned over Ratchet’s chair, resting his arms on it to look over his shoulder. “But when these particles are created at the event horizon, one falls into the singularity, while the other escapes. Since the net mass and energy of the universe must remain constant, it takes the energy needed to escape from the singularity and becomes high energy cosmic radiation.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Makes more sense when he says it,” Smokescreen grinned, chuckling over Fort Max’s muttered, “That made more sense?” Their drinks were quickly disappearing, too. “Does that mean the gun is impossible, then?”

“Of course,” Perceptor said like it was obvious.

“It’s not impossible!” Brainstorm insisted, looking up at Perceptor with a kind of religious zeal. “Not  _ all  _ super-dense phenomena experience Hawking radiation, you know.”

“I also know those that do not aren’t self-sustaining at the size you’re talking about,” Perceptor said, leaning even farther over Ratchet’s shoulder toward Brainstorm. “A teaspoon sized black hole may evaporate due to Hawking radiation, but it doesn't need any additional gravity to remain a singularity for as long as it persists. A teaspoon of, say, a neutron star, would explode once freed from the massive gravity of the star because it no longer has enough of its own gravity to hold itself together.”

“I’m going to go ahead and say exploding stars aren’t a good thing to be putting in a gun,” Smokescreen said, snickering as Brainstorm and Perceptor continued to edge closer and closer to each other with Ratchet trapped between them.

“It’s kind of debatable if a neutron star can even be classified as a  _ star,” _ Brainstorm threw in Smokescreen’s direction, “since stars are run by nuclear fusion.  _ Neutron stars _ are ‘run’ by the crushing force of gravity just like singularities are! They’re  _ almost _ black holes.”

“Apparently crushing a mass to the point where identical subatomic particles are forced to occupy the same quantum system — something normally considered impossible, and which forces all of the subatomic particles in question to move in random directions at nearly the speed of light within the star’s core — is not enough to create a black hole,” Perceptor agreed with a glare. “But that does not mean they aren’t  _ stars. _ A distinct category, yes, but it makes less sense to classify them as  _ almost black holes _ than it does to call them what they really  _ are.” _

“What they really are is a regrettable topic of conversation,” Ratchet grumbled, unable to even keep drinking with Perceptor hanging over his shoulder and Brainstorm up in his face. “If you’re going to keep talking about this, could you do it from your own chairs?”

“If you think—”

“Just because—”

“Ha! There you are!” Both scientists looked up at Rodimus. “Perceptor! I need some magic.”

“Ask Brainstorm,” Perceptor replied with a cold glance at his compatriot. “He seems to be branching out into the field.”

“Huh? Whatever. No offense, Brainstorm, but I’m hoping for some not-weaponized magic. Nope. Definitely need Perceptor magic. Come on. Chop chop.” Rodimus made the chopping gesture with his hands. “Captain’s orders.”

With a sigh (and a wobble), Perceptor pushed himself upright. “Lead the way then, captain.”

“Not everything I make is weapons,” Brainstorm muttered sullenly into his drink. 

“Maybe not, but you have to admit it’s a specialty.” Ratchet patted his shoulder. “Did you already make a drink?” It looked like that was what Rodimus had wanted Perceptor for, though Ratchet doubted he’d be of much help with that, drunk as he was. 

“I did!” Brainstorm perked up. “It shoots plasma from the glass after it’s poured.”

Smokescreen facepalmed.

“Because of course it does.” He had said he loved plasma. Ratchet downed the rest of his Clogged Filter. “Who’s getting the next round?”

“I will,” Fortress Maximus edged out of his spot next to the wall and picked up the tray Ratchet had brought to the table, which had somehow collected most of the used glasses. “Orders?”

“I am  _ not  _ drinking one of those,” Smokescreen shuddered at the film clinging to the sides of Ratchet’s drained glass. “Get me a This Is Probably A Mistake.”

“Might as well try one of those Mystery drinks,” Ratchet said, nodding at Brainstorm’s drink.

“I haven’t had an Unholy Future yet.” 

Fortress Maximus listed off the orders out loud, as though he needed the help memorizing them, then headed for the bar with a nod.

“Too bad Perceptor left,” Brainstorm said wistfully. “I wanted to tell him about the NanoBot™ drones. Those aren’t a weapon! Well,” he traced something that looked like a terrifyingly complex equation in the condensation left on the table, while Smokescreen gave him a rather incredulous look, “technically they  _ have _ weapons, but I didn’t make them to  _ be _ weapons.”

“You can tell him later,” Ratchet said, not wanting to get into a debate over whether the NanoBots were weapons or not. 

“So is Drift really changing his optic color?” Brainstorm swung back to sounding cheerful, wings twitching animatedly.

They were back to that, huh? “Maybe. He’s thinking about it.”

“That’s nice.” Brainstorm started drawing another equation in the condensation on the table. 

Smokescreen chuckled. “You don’t seem bothered by it,” he asked a little leadingly.

“If he were a secret Decepticon, he’d keep the blue,” Brainstorm said absently.

“Pretty sure we don’t need to worry about that,” Ratchet chuckled. Drift might keep certain ideological leanings a secret from most because of their associations, but that didn’t mean he was hiding an agenda to restore the Decepticon movement and subjugate everyone else on the ship. One could agree with an idea in principle and not in execution. 

“I know, right? It’s kind of dumb that people are saying it.”

“Yeah, but saying dumb things is a hobby for some mechs around here.”

“Because if  _ Drift, _ our third in command, is a secret Decepticon,” Smokescreen drawled, “we’re clearly doomed. And he wouldn’t be changing his optic color to match until after we were all dead.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” an eavesdropping Tailgate said, climbing up into the seat Fort Max would probably want back when he returned without asking if it was okay. “Cyclonus has red optics and he’s awesome. Unless there’s some taboo about frame modification I’m not aware of? There was some of that way back when I was forged, too.”

“There wasn’t a taboo against changing your optic color specifically so much as there was a taboo against changing anything about your frame, because to do so was a rejection of your ‘gods-ordained’ function,” Ratchet explained. “The thing is, a lot of mechs who happened to have red optics wound up being Decepticons. So many that even though the two things weren’t technically correlated, it was a nearly foolproof indicator for a long time.”

“At which point,” Smokescreen put in, “when both factions started building mechs, they used the optic color most closely associated with their faction so the new mechs would fit in: usually blue for Autobots and red for Decepticons.”

“There have always been exceptions on both sides,” Fort Max said, coming back with his laden tray of drinks. He passed them around before looking down at his occupied seat. “More among Autobots than Decepticons, and keeping the color you were forged with  _ usually _ didn’t cause problems. But  _ changing _ the color was often seen as suspicious.”

“Oh, hi!” Tailgate looked up (and up) at the prison warden, then around the table again. “Did I take your chair?”

“You can sit in my lap,” Brainstorm offered, collecting his Unholy Future (Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was in it to make energon appear black). “We’re both small enough to share a chair.”

“Okay!” Tailgate disappeared under the table.

Ratchet claimed the bubbling Brainstorm’s Ultimate Mystery, which, after a cautious sip, he decided ranked just below the Rusty Wrench. “People always ask why someone wants to change something about their frame,” he continued once Tailgate reappeared, happily holding on to the arm Brainstorm wrapped around him to keep him from slipping back under the table. “Curiosity’s a natural thing. But even though there’s more than one possible answer, the assumption with optics wound up being that there was only one  _ real  _ reason. Which is completely untrue,” he said emphatically. 

“Mechs have a little extra help jumping to that conclusion with Drift because he  _ was _ a Decepticon, and past behavior is often seen as an indicator of future patterns. So there’s a mech they’re already a little suspicious of, who did have red optics in the past when he was a Decepticon,” Smokescreen said. “He gave up both when he became an Autobot, but now he wants one of them back. People wonder if he wants the other thing back, too.”

“It’s still dumb,” Brainstorm muttered, sniffing at his black concoction through the vents in his facemask. “Oh! It’s got glitter!” He stirred his straw around in the liquid, then pulled it out to get a closer look at the sparkly flecks Ratchet could now see. “Aluminum, dye, and a plastic coating. Neat.”

Tailgate giggled as a drop splashed on his head, leaving an obvious mark on his white plating. “Well, I think he’d look cool with red optics.”

“I don’t know about  _ cool,” _ Fort Max rumbled. His drink was a bright, even blue color. “What I don’t understand is why his current frame has blue optics, if he’s just changing back to red now. What’s the point of going through all the adjustment for one color, just to switch back later?”

How much should he say? How much would Drift  _ want _ him to say? Ratchet was in a privileged position thanks to their relationship, and the personal nature of the subject made him a bit hesitant to gossip as freely as he otherwise would have. But everyone was already talking about it, and this was a chance to cut off wild speculation before it could get out of hand. “Drift got blue optics as part of a nearly full-frame rebuild,” he said. “One that was a matter of necessity more than choice. Given the timing, the color change wasn’t something he contested, but it wasn’t a premeditated decision.”

“I still don’t get it.” Fort Max continued to look confused, even as he hunched his shoulders a little in a way that indicated he was aware that prying wouldn’t necessarily be welcome. “A full rebuild doesn’t really come with an optic color change unless you want it to.”

“Or materials aren’t available,” Ratchet pointed out, despite not knowing whether that was really the reason the Circle had given Drift blue optics. It was the most charitable assumption he could make about their intentions, though some of the things Drift had said were enough to make him suspect something less innocent. “It’s even possible, depending on the extent of the damage and whether or not there’s any history available, for a medic to not know what color a mech’s optics originally were before reconstructing them.” Which, again, didn’t seem likely with Drift; Wing, at least, had to have known. 

“I suppose,” Fortress Maximus said, unwilling to pry further.

“Is changing optic colors hard?” Tailgate asked innocently.

“Not really,” Smokescreen said. “Autobots have rules against doing it to someone who can’t consent out of respect for a mech’s body autonomy and choice of faction.”

“It’s easier not to bother, too.” Brainstorm finally inserted the straw under his facemask to start drinking. “Fabrication is expensive.”

“The wrong optic color can make an escaping prisoner attempting to blend in with the guards stand out more,” was Fort Max’s contribution. 

“It is a very unusual situation,” Ratchet acknowledged. “But that’s why he’s thinking about it now. Is the change he happened to wind up with one that he wants to keep by choice, or does he want to go back to what he had before? Either is a valid decision, and neither makes him evil.”

“I think he’s very heroic,” Tailgate bounced a little as he gushed. “He tried to rescue me from Cyclonus! Totally didn’t need to, because he wasn’t trying to kill me, but still! It was a very gallant thing to do.”

“Wait, wait —  _ Drift  _ tried to rescue you from Cyclonus?” That was news to Ratchet! And he wasn’t the only one suddenly leaning forward in interest. “When?”

“Right before we arrived on Hedonia.” Tailgate giggled. “He busted down the door to our quarters to save me.”

“Only, you didn’t need saving.” Smokescreen was grinning. “What made him think you did?”

“Well, Cyclonus was singing some opera songs for me. He’s a very good singer!”

“By a liberal definition of good,” Brainstorm cackled, and Ratchet laughed along with him. He’d heard about Cyclonus’ singing, though so far he’d been lucky enough to escape hearing a performance in person. No wonder Drift hadn’t said anything about the incident. How embarrassing!

“And Cyclonus is scary, and a very good fighter, but Drift didn’t hesitate to try and rescue me!” Tailgate bounced again. “Definitely not evil!”

“I’m glad we can agree on that,” Ratchet said, still chuckling quietly and (a bit evilly himself) contemplating how to tease Drift with this new information. 

A sudden high-pitched whistle pierced the din of so many conversations and Ratchet looked up to see Rodimus standing on the bar, much to Swerve’s obvious distaste. He was going to have to clean that, or risk someone telling Ultra Magnus about the health code violation. Not that Rodimus seemed to care at the moment.

“Helloooo gentlemechs!” he called as the last conversation died down to a whisper. He swayed slightly, though Ratchet couldn't tell if it was because he was already tipsy or some other reason. “Because I am such a generous captain — and totally  _ not _ because it’s my drink! — I will be buying everyone a Cosmic Stardust! Enjoy!”

Everyone at their table, except Tailgate, shared a knowing look. “It’s totally his drink,” Smokescreen said.

“Yup.”

“Definitely.”

“But he said it wasn’t!”

“And he was lying through his teeth,” Ratchet said with confidence. Still, free drink. He’d accept it and pretend he had no idea who’d come up with it when giving his feedback.

Utterly self-serving promotion of his own drink or not, Rodimus’ stunt definitely made him the most popular mech in the room for the moment. He flitted from group to group, chatting and preening. Ratchet decided to ignore him until he reached their table, a task made easier by a few others dropping by to ask him what was quickly becoming the question of the night: is Drift really changing his optics?

Someone on Drift’s list of mechs to talk to had a big mouth for so many people to be talking about it. Ratchet’s money was on Whirl.

Swerve got to their table with a tray of (Ratchet presumed) Cosmic Stardusts before the captain did. The drinks were — obviously — layers of bright yellow and red that matched Rodimus’ paint. It glittered. It sparkled. It even flashed gold when something inside them caught the light just right. Ratchet supposed that he should be glad Perceptor hadn’t figured out how to safely set it on fire.

The bartender didn’t, for once, stick around to tell a joke. He just set down the tray with a hurried “Enjoy,” and rushed back to the bar to retrieve the next tray of drinks Skids had prepared.

“Subtle our captain is not,” Smokescreen observed, admiring the visual before giving the drink a try. “On the plus side, it’s also not bad.”

“Not bad isn’t the same as good,” Ratchet said as he followed suit, then coughed. “Hrm! Not a good thing to pair with a Mystery.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure it pairs well with this either,” Smokescreen said, swirling the half-empty Mistake in his other hand. “Tailgate, you don’t have anything else to conflict with it. What do you think?”

“It’s pretty!” The minibot was absorbed in playing with the sparkles. “Anyway I can’t drink it without a straw.”

“I’d say use mine, but that would negate the ability to taste the drink in isolation.” Brainstorm waved his blackened straw for emphasis. “We’ll just have to get you a clean one.”

“Here,” a handful of straws dropped down onto the center of the table. “I should have thought of that,” Rodimus grinned, leaning over Ratchet’s chair and into the medic’s personal space without concern, though in a much more friendly way than Perceptor had earlier, “when I was designing it.”

“Thank you!” Unsurprisingly, Tailgate went right for the curly straw. “Mm! It’s good!”

“Yeah? Great!” Rodimus beamed. “What about you, Ratch? You like it?”

“The jury’s still out,” Ratchet answered, determined to give it a fair chance. “I need to finish this first.”

“No worries. No rush,” Rodimus said unconvincingly. “Smokes? Fort Max? Brainstorm?”

“What he said,” Smokescreen said. “It’s got a strong flavor that doesn’t react well with other drinks, or at least not the ones we have.”

“Isn’t a problem with this one,” Brainstorm said, having taken a clean straw to try the new drink. “I like it!”

“It’s a bit on the acidic side for me,” Fort Max said, almost apologetically. “Looks nice, though.”

Rodimus preened. “I want it to be the best tasting of course, but everyone’s tastes are so different, so it should also be the best  _ looking _ so it’s definitely the best of the best.”

“It’s definitely optic catching.” And it wasn’t a bad strategy, designing something that would be memorable for its looks as well as its flavor. “And free,” Ratchet said, raising his glass to the captain. “Thanks.”

“Wel~come,” he sing-songed back. “Now I hate to deprive you of your illustrious captain’s presence but, I have more straws to deliver and—  _ Primusdamnit!” _ He stomped one foot, tilting his helm at what was obviously an unwelcome comm call. “Yeah, I’ll be right there. I don’t suppose one of you could finish passing these out?” 

“Duty calls?” Ratchet guessed.

“Yeah. Bummer.” He held out the larger handful of straws. “Somebody? Please?”

“Me!” Tailgate’s hand shot up. “I’ll do it!”

“You’re a hero.” The captain dropped the straws into Tailgate’s outstretched hands. “Gotta jet.”

“Later,” Ratchet called after him, watching with amusement as Tailgate squirmed out of Brainstorm’s lap and set off on his quest to deliver straws. 

“I feel like that’s my cue to engage my FIM chip and not get any drunker,” Smokescreen drawled with a note of disappointment in his voice.

“Why? You think whatever that was is going to involve us?” 

“Are you on the  _ Lost Light _ or some other ship I’m not aware of?”

Fortress Maximus snickered, a truly odd sound from a mech so large and usually serious.

Ratchet sighed. He had a point. “I’m still finishing this,” he said stubbornly, not willing to give up on a good time just yet. Rodimus being called away wasn’t the same as an emergency announcement, and the medbay was covered. He could afford to get drunk.

.

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	22. Chapter 22

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.

Drunk was exactly what Ratchet got. He only just managed to stagger back to his quarters after several more rounds, where he proceeded to fall face-first onto the nice, padded surface of his berth and pass out without plugging in. The result was a lovely hangover when he woke up, still alone and with no word from Drift about getting together. 

Not the worst night out he’d ever had — even recently — in terms of the morning after, but not exactly pleasant either. At least drunk meant he wasn’t running his batteries down. 

He staggered to the medbay before his shift and waved grumpily at First Aid’s overly cheery greeting as he trudged into the office. There he fished out one of the stronger hangover chips from his desk and plugged it into the port at the back of his neck, collapsing into the chair as he did so. It flushed the charge from his systems much more efficiently than the ones usually given out to whiners who came in with a headache. No one wanted a medic with even the leftover remnants of a hangover. Too bad flushing the charge and dulling the pain that quickly had a tendency to leave one dizzy for a breem afterward. He leaned back in the chair and sighed, pretending he was still in recharge.

“Good morning, Ratchet,” First Aid chirped again, appearing in the door. “Did you have fun last cycle?”

No. Go away. Couldn’t he see Ratchet was sleeping?

“Rise and shine! Don’t you want a report on last shift’s cases?” First Aid did not go away and obviously wasn’t fooled by Ratchet’s recharge imitation.

“I guess I should get a report,” Ratchet grumbled, optics still off. “Is it too much to ask that you give it quietly?”

Apparently, it was. First Aid gave Ratchet a run down of everyone who’d come in during his shift — most of them with highgrade or partying-related ailments — at the same sadistic volume he’d greeted him. 

“You’re incredibly helpful, you know that?”

“Thank you,” First Aid answered gleefully.

Ratchet waved a hand vaguely toward the door. “Go be helpful somewhere else. I’ll be out in another couple of kliks.”

“Sure! I’ll just finish painting the medbay in hazard orange and reflective yellow swirls!” 

First Aid almost skipped out of the office. Ratchet sincerely hoped he wasn’t serious, but he couldn’t be sure. Not willing to risk it, he forced himself back to his feet as soon as the worst of the dizziness subsided, and was relieved not to be blinded by the threatened hazard markings. “Alright, I’m on duty,” he announced, resigned.

“Splendid,” First Aid said far too loudly, making a few other mechs Ratchet vaguely remembered being at theme night flinch. He was standing in the center of the medbay, which wasn’t being painted and was in fact exactly as Ratchet had left it last cycle. He couldn’t even complain about First Aid making everyone’s lives miserable. Not without being a hypocrite. It just wasn’t fair.

Someone snickered, and Ratchet turned to see one of the Decepticons — Nightraider, the one Fort Max had said had Spec Ops modifications — laughing quietly. He’d left his cleaning supplies out and his hands and feet had both been re-chained in preparation for the trip through the ship’s halls. One of the security mechs stood behind him, waiting for First Aid to finish up.

“I’ll be seeing you in a breem or two, yes?” Ratchet asked the mech on guard duty. Right about now, he wished he hadn’t scheduled chaperoning any of the prisoners this shift, but it was too late now. 

“Yep.” He nudged Nightraider to follow First Aid out the door. “I’ll be relieved during your shift, though.” 

“Just make sure whoever comes on after you knows that Blueray is supposed to have track time after he’s done helping me,” Ratchet reminded him. The beastformer had a functioning T-cog now, but still needed opportunities to exercise it, hence his continued shifts in the medbay. Not that there was a lot left for him to do; Ratchet hoped he’d be able to come up with enough to satisfy everyone that he was, in fact, earning said track time.

“I’ll pass it on.”

“Bye, Ratchet!” First Aid called, while Nightraider ducked his head to hide his laughter.

The door closed. Finally, some peace.

By the time the guard returned with Blueray, Ratchet was feeling much more like his usual self. He didn’t torment the hangover patients quite as much as First Aid had, but he didn’t coddle anyone either. Most of them didn’t try to linger, though Doubletap insisted that his pain was worsening despite the recovery patch and asked to be given a shift off to recover. After discovering that he’d managed to combine drinks in a way that had created a corrosive sludge in his tanks, Ratchet granted the request, along with administering a chaser cocktail to neutralize the chemical soup.

“The damage will stop worsening right away, but the pain will linger until your self repair catches up and reverses it,” Ratchet told him. “If you’re feeling anything worse than lingering tenderness a full cycle from now, we’ll need to do a more detailed scan.”

“Thanks, doc.” Doubletap hopped off the berth. He didn’t even send a suspicious glance toward Blueray, though he was unchained while he polished shelves. “You’re a saint.”

“Don’t go spreading rumors,” Ratchet chided. A saint, indeed. He didn’t need Drift hearing that.

“Aww… come on, doc. We need you to be the famous Autobot CMO — perfect in every medical way — for our visitors! Ship’s pride!”

“Visitors?” 

“Right!” Doubletap looked across the medbay. “Hey you. Decepticon! You think Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, and Ratchet, Legendary Chief Autobot Medic, are enough to equal one Thunderclash, or are we utterly pathetic by comparison?”

Blueray’s dog-ears, situated on top of his helm with the rest of his alt-form’s head, twitched nervously, then flattened. His optics darted to Ratchet, then he ducked down to concentrate on his work. Ratchet was happy to leave him to it. “Leave him alone. Thunderclash?  _ The  _ Thunderclash?” he asked, not quite trusting what he’d heard. “Thunderclash is going to be here?”

“According to Turbine, who heard it from Brainstorm, who heard it from Skater, Flex, and Borer, who heard it from Blaster.” Doubletap stretched. “There’ll probably be an announcement when Drift and the captain get out of their command meeting. I mean, who  _ wouldn’t _ be happy Thunderclash is going to be here —  _ on this ship _ — for a few cycles?”

“No one in their right processor, that’s for sure!” Ratchet was certainly happy. He hadn’t seen Thunderclash since… since… Well, it had been a long time, anyway. “Did Turbine have any idea when he was going to arrive?”

“Sometime later this cycle.” Doubletap waved dismissively. “Which means I need to go rest up. Wouldn’t want to miss the occasion because of an upset tank!”

“Definitely not,” Ratchet agreed. “Go, and let me know if it doesn’t get better.”

“You got it.”

Ratchet found himself smiling as Doubletap left. Thunderclash! He was surprised there hadn’t been an announcement already. He pinged Drift, urgent but not emergency, to get back to him when he had a moment. Ratchet wanted to know how long they’d have to catch up, and whether anyone was making arrangements for a welcome party.

He was rather surprised when Drift answered right away.  _ “Hey, Ratchet. Problem?” _

_ “Oh! I thought you were in a meeting. No, there’s no problem, I just wanted to know when Thunderclash will be here and how long he’s planning to stay.” _

_ “We’ll arrive at the  _ Vis Vitalis’ _ location sometime after shift changeover,” _ Drift elaborated readily enough, in a rather neutral tone of voice.  _ “We don’t know how long he’ll be staying. We’re responding to a non-urgent distress beacon, so it’ll depend a lot on what the situation is.” _

_ “If there’s anything I can do, let me know,”  _ Ratchet said, prepared to help in any way he could.  _ “Is Rodimus going to make an announcement? Everyone’s going to want to see him. Maybe I should see if Swerve can put up some banners,”  _ he mused.

_ “I think an announcement of some sort is needed,” _ Drift said slowly.  _ “When’s your interview with Rewind?” _ he abruptly changed the subject.

_ “Intervi— oh, right. That.”  _ He’d completely forgotten about Rewind’s latest project.  _ “He’s supposed to come by at the end of my shift. He claimed it wouldn’t take long, but I can’t step away from work with Blueray here.” _

_ “I’d help if I could, but as newly trusting as Ultra Magnus seems to have become, it doesn’t extend to letting me deal with the prisoners as something more than an incidental guard. Besides, I wouldn’t want to panic your pet project,” _ he teased.

_ “Hey, me not ignoring him is part of accommodating Ultra Magnus too, not to mention Red Alert,”  _ Ratchet shot back.  _ “And he’s not my pet project, they all are. Or, at least the ones willing to work with us.”  _ There were several Decepticons in the lot that weren’t, or had been deemed too unsafe to take a risk on. Blueray, however, along with Nightraider, Ragefire, Silverstorm, and a few others, were being considered for relocation out of the brig to secured quarters in exchange for continued work shifts and good behavior, which Ratchet viewed as a promising step. 

_ “Doesn’t negate that any of them would panic if I dropped in for a chat,” _ Drift drawled.

_ “Ah. No, I suppose it doesn’t.”  _ Decepticons had even more of a tendency than Autobots to see Deadlock when they looked at Drift. At least Thunderclash wouldn’t have that problem!  _ “Is anyone already in charge of the welcome party for Thunderclash?” _

_ “Not that I know of.” _ Inexplicably, Drift’s voice turned a tad defensive.  _ “I’ve been busy.” _

Ratchet didn’t ask what he’d been busy with. Now that he knew Thunderclash would be visiting, he could guess their captain was occupying Drift with his complaints. Rodimus didn’t like to be shown up, and Thunderclash tended to show up everyone just by existing.  _ “Let me take care of it, then. One less thing for you to worry about.”  _

_ “If you want.” _

_ “I’ll coordinate with Swerve; he can get started while I’m still here, then I’ll check in with him once I finish with Rewind.”  _ And use needing to meet with Swerve as an excuse to wrap up early if Rewind didn’t keep things quick.  _ “Did you already do your interview?” _

_ “Not yet. It’s scheduled for… just before yours, I think.” _

_ “Warn me if it turns out to be an ambush?” _

That prompted a laugh.  _ “Why would I do that?” _

_ “Because you care about me deeply and wouldn’t willingly let me walk into a trap like that if you could possibly help it?”  _ Drift couldn’t see Ratchet’s grin, but he didn’t miss the teasing tone of the words.

_ “Point. I’ll consider it.” _ Drift paused.  _ “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.” _

_ “See you later. Good luck with Rodimus.” _

Drift didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Chuckling as he let the call drop, Ratchet pinged Swerve next.  _ “Hey! Have you had a chance to recover from theme night yet?” _

_ “Mostly. Everything’s clean, I promise.” _

_ “Good, because I’m hoping you’re up to hosting another event. Did you hear about our visitors?”  _ Ratchet would be surprised if he hadn’t, but then, it was possible he’d been busy enough cleaning up the bar that he’d missed the rumors. 

_ “Yeah! Oh Primus, I never thought I’d ever be able to meet him!” _ There was a pause, then,  _ “Wait! You’re asking  _ **_me_ ** _ to host the party? That means— Eee!” _ Swerve trailed off into a rather incoherent squeak.

_ “Unless you’re not up to it,”  _ Ratchet said, thinking out loud to give Swerve a chance to collect himself.  _ “Maybe it’d be better to set up in a larger space anyway, though it’d be great if you were still able to provide drinks. I’ll get an exception for it so Ultra Magnus doesn’t complain. He’s not due to arrive until after I finish my shift, so I can come help once I’m off.” _

_ “No problems!” _ Swerve said hurriedly.  _ “I can do it. I’ll have a party whipped up in no time!” _

_ “Great! Let me know if you need me to requisition anything.”  _ Or anyone, though Ratchet doubted anyone would turn down assisting with this. 

_ “Will do! Thank you for using Swerve’s Catering Service!” _ Then there was a crash of some sort and Swerve muttered to himself before the line went dead.

Well. That took care of that. Now Ratchet just had to wait until the end of his shift.

“Amazing how slowly time passes when you’re looking forward to something,” he muttered some time later after checking his chronometer for what had to be the fifth time in a joor. 

“Maybe you can show me how to fix some of these?” Blueray asked quietly enough that Ratchet could pretend he hadn’t heard him if he wanted to. He was standing over a pile of broken, spare parts he’d gathered up from elsewhere in the medbay, poking through them. His ears flattened again when he sensed Ratchet turn around to look at him. Ratchet imagined that if his primary form had had a tail, it would have been tucked down between his legs.

Figuring it would be something to do, at least, Ratchet walked over to join him. “Some of them, maybe,” he said, examining the assortment. Most of them looked like relatively simple fixes. “Grab a few and bring them over to the workbench.”

“Yes, sir.” He picked out a broken circuit board, some torn tubing, and a bundle of faulty wires, then followed Ratchet to the workbench. The new guard scowled, but didn’t try to interfere. Good; if Blueray was stupid enough to attack Ratchet with one of the tools and throw away all his work up to now, Ratchet was perfectly capable of handling it himself. They were  _ his  _ tools, after all.

“Let’s start with these,” he said, grabbing one of the torn tubes. “The first thing to do is run the length of it to see where it’s damaged. If it’s just in one place we can cut them down and save the good parts for small repairs, or even patch them if we need to, but if the whole thing is deteriorating it’s not worth hanging onto.” Ratchet happened to know that this bundle had already been saved from the consignment bin as good enough to cut down instead of grinding down, but that was as far as anyone had gotten with them.

Blueray copied Ratchet, his clawed fingers picking up the tube with surprising dexterity. He felt along it, seeking out any damaged areas. Too bad he’d missed the tiny tear in the tube, finding a less serious dent instead.

“Bend it more as you go along,” Ratchet said, demonstrating on another piece. “It’ll make the tears stand out better, and if it can’t hold up to flexing in your hands, you don’t want to be putting it in someone anyway.”

“You’ll anneal them again later?”

“Once they’re cut down, yes.” A few feet down the piece he was holding, Ratchet found a small grouping of tears, likely shrapnel damage. “See these larger ones? Unless you’re really trying to save every little thing,” which they were lucky enough not to be doing now, “this is the kind of stuff you just cut out and hope what’s left is long enough for something else. These smaller ones,” he pointed to the tears around the edges of the cluster, “can sometimes be sealed up in the annealing process, but it leaves the tubing weaker in that area if they’re in a group like this.”

Blueray picked up another tube, this time bending it back and forth gently. Ratchet could tell he was worried about bending it too often, making it brittle or breaking it, but this time he found the sharp edge of a tear when it bowed outwards, catching on one of his claws. He showed Ratchet.

“Good. Mark that so it’s easy to find later,” Ratchet handed him a marking stylus, “and keep going. We could cut them as we find them too, but since there’s a bunch of them it’ll be faster in the long run to split things up.”

Obligingly, Blueray drew a circle around the tear and set it on Ratchet’s small pile.

He turned out to be a pretty good assistant for this sort of thing. Ratchet wasn’t sure — looking at the mech’s wide, sharp claws — that he’d make a good medic or nurse, but he might be a decent tech, if given the chance.

They went through several such small repair jobs, interrupted a couple of times by minor ailments and complaints. Ratchet sent a memo to Ultra Magnus that certain members of the crew might be due a reminder that driving indoors was not allowed, even though the dented miscreants insisted that hadn’t been what they were doing. 

He was just wrapping up with Blueray when Rewind showed up, almost a breem early. “I said after my shift,” Ratchet reminded him.

“I just want some footage of the medbay in action,” Rewind said brightly. “Maybe get some shots of you treating a patient, or a statement about rehabilitating Decepticons.”

“You need the patient’s consent to film them, not that there’s anyone here at the moment who needs me right now.” The mechs on life support in ISO didn’t count. “And the same goes for filming Blueray,” who was edging behind one of the berths as though he could hide there.

“Rodimus said I’d have full access for the documentary, though.” Rewind pulled himself up onto another berth and sat on it stubbornly. “Showing the quality of care mechs will get, and our dedication to ending the fighting, will go a long way towards convincing people to sign on.”

“Right, because one of our biggest concerns is recruitment.” They barely ran into any opportunities for that to be an issue! And somehow they still managed to pick up new crew members at every other stop. “I don’t have a problem with you filming me, but I’m going to have a talk with Rodimus about what constitutes full access in my medbay.” And with the Decepticons; it wasn’t fair to record them cooperating with Autobots in a film meant for a wide audience if they had any aspirations of returning to their faction once they were transferred off the  _ Lost Light. _

Rewind continued to look stubborn, but he obviously was taking into consideration that Ratchet might bodily pick him up to toss him out,  _ without _ doing the promised interview first. “Fair enough. I’ll be making my case to the captain too. In the meantime,” he gestured to the door, “I have a recording room for the interviews.”

“Great. I’ll be with you at the end of my shift,” Ratchet repeated. “I need Ambulon to take over before I can leave, though you two,” he looked to Blueray and his guard, “can go ahead and take off now.”

“Back to the brig, or someplace else?” Rewind asked, looking interested.

“Brig,” the guard lied, affixing the chains back on Blueray’s wrists and ankles for the trip through the halls. They wouldn’t be going to the brig, but to the currently empty lob-ball arena to give him the chance to run around in his alt form.

Rewind lost interest though, for which Ratchet was grateful. “Did you want to film the shift change? Redacting any patient names, that is?”

“Sure!”

It wasn’t a very eventful shift change, but getting to film it put Rewind in a better mood. Ambulon complained that his paint wasn’t up to being on camera, but went along with it anyway when Rewind promised he could touch him up in post. 

After the usual rounds, Ratchet was finally willing to submit to his interview. “Go ahead,” he said once they were settled to Rewind’s satisfaction in the recording room, which was a storage closet with sound absorbing cloths set up on the walls. “Ask your questions.”

“Please sit down,” Rewind gestured to the stool he’d set up while he fussed with the larger recording and sound system already in the room. “Do you need anything before we start?”

“No,” Ratchet said slowly, unable to think of a reason for him to even ask. “Let’s just do this, I’ve got other things to get to.”

“Alright.” Rewind moved behind the large camera, and Ratchet saw a light come on, blinking slowly. “Why don’t you start by introducing yourself.”

“Ratchet, currently the chief medical officer of the  _ Lost Light,”  _ Ratchet said, feeling a bit silly. 

“Currently?”

“As in, for now. First Aid will be taking over the post sometime in the near future, at which point I’ll just be a medic on staff.” 

“Just feeling ready to retire?” Rewind was difficult to see, standing behind the recording device. “Can you tell us more about that?”

“There’s not much to tell, really,” Ratchet shrugged. “The plan when I set out was to find a successor and retire. I found a successor, so next up is retiring.”

“You didn’t believe in the quest when we set out?”

“It’s a fine quest. It just isn’t mine.” Still wasn’t, when it came down to it. “The Knights of Cybertron aren’t my problem. The crew of this ship is.”

“So you don’t believe in what we’re doing?”

“If you define ‘what we’re doing’,” he said, raising his hands to form quotation marks around the words, “as valianty following the trail of some legendary figures with the expectation of finding Cyberutopia and a magic solution to all our problems, then no. I don’t believe in it.”

“Tell me about that gesture you just made.”

And that’s how it went. Rewind asked tons of what Ratchet thought were mostly dumb questions about the quest, the  _ Lost Light, _ his opinions on various members of the crew, how he felt about various events… Rewind even asked a little bit about the upcoming visit from Thunderclash.

“I’m looking forward to seeing him again,” Ratchet admitted when the subject came up. “Knowing him, he’s probably busy with something important and won’t be able to stay long, but it’d be nice to have him around for a few cycles.”

“Since you’re a medic, and the case is rather famous,” Rewind quickly tacked on, semi-defensively, “maybe you can tell us a little bit more about his medical situation?”

“Since it’s famous,” Ratchet agreed. Thunderclash himself hadn’t made an issue of hiding any of the details, so he didn’t need to be a stickler for confidentiality in this. “Thunderclash took a shot to the spark after the fall of Grindcore. He survived the initial injury, but it left him on the verge of a total shutdown that was only averted by hooking him up to a gigantic life support machine — the same machine that eventually became his ship, the  _ Vis Vitalis.  _ He had it converted so he could continue roaming the galaxy.” Ratchet smiled fondly. “He has to stay within a certain distance of the ship so it can continue powering him, but he hasn’t let that stop him from doing what he does best.”

“And what do you think that is?”

“What else?” Ratchet chuckled. “He’s the greatest Autobot who ever lived.”

The interview wrapped up rather quickly after that, and Ratchet made his escape. He hurried to find Swerve, who had wrangled several helpers into arranging seating and decorations in a hastily converted cargo-cum-partyspace. 

Ratchet blinked when he saw Whirl tacking up a banner. “Has anyone told him it’s upside-down?”

“No…” Smokescreen shrugged his doors. “I don’t think anyone has dared.” He sounded more amused than afraid, though, so it was more likely he at least thought the mistake hilarious.

“Uh huh.” Well, Ratchet wasn’t afraid of Whirl. “Hey!” he called up to him. “Turn that around!”

Whirl looked down, and for a nanoklik Ratchet thought he was going to say something snarky, but all he got back was, “Sure, whatever. Skids was asking for you earlier over there,” and a claw waved at the makeshift bar.

“What for?”

“How should I know? Go ask him yourself, I’m busy here!”

Of course he was. 

“Glad you’re here,” Skids said when Ratchet came over and peered behind the counter where he was busy hooking up a tap system. “I needed to ask you whether we’re going to run into a code issue with some of the equipment and ingredients. Don’t want to get written up for a violation after getting special permission to be here with this stuff, after all.”

“Agreed.” That was a discussion Ratchet didn’t want to have with Ultra Magnus either, so he set to going over the bar with Skids to make sure nothing would be cause for objection.

When he looked back up to check the banner, he found that Whirl had indeed turned it… so the printed side was facing the wall.

“You  _ said _ turn it  _ around,” _ Whirl heckled when Ratchet yelled up at him.

“Well turn it so the  _ front _ faces outward and the text is  _ displayed correctly,” _ Ratchet snapped back. This was  _ just _ what he needed when preparing a welcome party for the greatest Autobot ever! He was going to be here any… 

…Actually, where  _ was  _ Thunderclash? He’d felt the  _ Lost Light _ dock with another ship — presumably the  _ Vis Vitalis _ — a short time ago. Even taking into account Red Alert’s overly thorough security checks, they should have gotten word that Thunderclash was onboard by now. He wasn’t ungrateful for the reprieve, since they were running a bit late getting everything ready, but it was a little worrying.

As if on cue, Red Alert’s emergency sirens went off over the PA system, causing more than a few mechs to jump in surprise or curse.

“What’s going on?”

“Do we need to get ready to fight?”

“Woohoo! Best kind of party!”

“Whirl, knock it off!”

A klik later — before Ratchet had done anything but move toward the door, headed to the medbay — the sirens cut out and the shipwide intercom crackled to life, broadcasting Rodimus’ voice.  _ “Okay. Everyone can stand down. Sort of. It was… well it wasn’t a false alarm, but it’s taken care of now. At ease.” _

No update on Thunderclash’s status.

Ratchet hesitated to call Drift, not wanting to interrupt him in the middle of whatever was going on, then went ahead and asked over the bridge frequency,  _ “Is anyone hurt?” _

_ “Ambulon’s still trying to figure that out,” _ Drift answered, on the same frequency where most of the crew wouldn’t be privy to the details.  _ “One of the visitors was an infiltrator, and he’s still sorting out their physiology. You’re probably going to get a call in—” _

_ “Ratchet?” _ Ambulon interrupted over one of the private medical frequencies.  _ “You’ve got more experience with alien mechanicals than I do; I could use some help.” _

_ “Where?”  _ Ratchet asked Ambulon, while confirming with Drift,  _ “I’ve got him on another line now.” _

_ “We’re at the exterior hatch, but by the time you get here, Twitchy here will have us transferred to the brig,” _ Ambulon answered while Drift gave a wordless acknowledgement and didn’t say anything more, though he didn’t drop the line. Ratchet guessed he was concentrating on the situation in person.

_ “Then that’s where I’ll meet you.”  _ No doubt Red Alert was already pushing them in that direction as they spoke.  _ “On my way to the brig,”  _ he updated Drift and anyone else on the bridge frequency, while telling the other party preppers, “Ambulon needs me to come look at something. It sounds like everything’s okay, so make sure we’re ready to go with this party, alright?”

Whirl groaned in disappointment. “Thought we were going to get to fight something!”

“Sorry,” Ratchet said, not sorry at all. “No fighting. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Hopefully with Thunderclash in tow, since he was obviously alright. If the only one they were trying to figure out was the infiltrator, then any other injuries, if there were any at all, were minor.

Ratchet didn’t walk slowly, but the brig was already bustling with activity when he arrived. “Ambulon?” he called out, not immediately seeing him. “Where are you?”

“Here!” the other medic called from beyond the gaggle of security mechs — including both Red Alert and Fortress Maximus — inside the one empty cell reserved for misbehaving crewmembers. “Come look at this.”

Red Alert gave him a deeply suspicious look as he pushed past them, but he didn’t take too much attention from the stranger standing beside him — a security mech from the  _ Vis Vitalis? _ — he was barking questions at. The force field had been turned from bars to a solid wall, which opened just enough for Ratchet to get inside when he entered his security code.

“This” turned out to be about twenty little mechanical beings, each about the size of a human, all in various states of unconsciousness or groggily waking up. “Stay still,” Ambulon warned one of the waking-up creatures, “or Red Alert will hit you again. Have you seen these before?” he asked Ratchet. “They’re all armed, which will sting if they shoot you, and can blast holes in the walls if they combine again, so that’s our first priority: weapons and t-cogs.”

Ratchet knelt down beside Ambulon, able to identify the creatures right away after a quick memory search. “They’re Stentarian,” he said, picking one at random to show Ambulon how to impede their transformations. “Largely like us physiologically, though on a much smaller scale and with the ability to combine in multiple configurations. What are they doing here?”

“Pretending to be Thunderclash’s second in command,” Ambulon drawled, copying Ratchet with one of the others who was starting to wake up, locking it away from weapon access and keeping it from recombining with its companions into something considerably more annoying.

“Not pretending very well, apparently.” 

“Not well enough to pass  _ my  _ inspection,” Red Alert huffed. “The standard security protocols you all insist are good enough would have let them walk right onto the ship with no one the wiser!”

“Thank you for spotting them,” Ratchet said genuinely. “They can be a real nuisance. Wasn’t there a minor incident with one of their factions back on Hedonia? I feel like Whirl was complaining about something anticlimactic.”

Red Alert huffed again. “I don’t know. It’s not like anyone actually  _ reported their activities _ while we were at Hedonia! Which is  _ another _ way this ship is completely insecure! How am I supposed to keep everyone  _ safe _ if they don’t  _ cooperate!” _ Fort Max just looked amused at Red Alert’s mini rant, reaching out to hold the security mech from the  _ Vis Vitalis _ by one arm to keep him from edging away while Red Alert was distracted. “At least it wasn’t ghosts or sparkeaters or some other unnatural monster this time,” Red Alert finished. “Just an infiltrator in the perfect position to kill us all if they hadn’t been caught!”

“Do we have any idea what they were after?” Ratchet asked the rightfully embarrassed security officer. Several of them were becoming more aware of their surroundings, but Ratchet and Ambulon had already disabled half of them. “How long were they on the  _ Vis Vitalis?”  _

“Paddox has been Thunderclash’s second officer for almost a thousand vorns. Long before I came on board; I didn’t have  _ any _ reason to suspect anything,” the mech answered.

Red Alert scoffed theatrically. “We’ll find out how long they’ve been there when we interrogate them.”

Ratchet nodded absently and continued disabling prisoners. That was a long time for them to have been hiding in plain sight, and dealing with a long-term deep-cover operative (team of operatives?) was not his job.  _ “They may be able to work out how to undo these blocks, given enough time together,”  _ he felt it was worth mentioning over a secure channel.  _ “I’d advise separating them, but we’re a little short on space.” _

Red Alert growled in frustration.  _ “We’ll lock them in cargo crates!” _

_ “Put them into stasis, or whatever their equivalent is, for now,” _ was Fortress Maximus’ much more reasonable suggestion.  _ “We’ll focus our attentions on finishing up one set of secure quarters for the Decepticons scheduled to be transferred out of here. It’ll be as crowded there for them as here until the others are done, but it’ll give us more cells to keep the Stentarians in. There’ll still be multiple individuals in each cell, but hopefully in small enough groups that our security can deal with any issues that arise.” _

Ratchet saw Red Alert open his mouth — probably to protest accelerating the schedule for moving the Decepticons — but quieted with a mulish look at Fort Max.  _ “That is acceptable,” _ he grumbled.  _ “But I want them off this ship as soon as possible! We’re going to interrogate them, then get rid of them!” _

_ “Do you want them in stasis right now, or after you interrogate them?”  _ Ratchet asked, looking up as Ambulon finished inhibiting the last one.  _ “It’s about as simple a process with them as it would be with a Cybertronian.” _

_ “I’ll begin interrogations now,” _ Red Alert said primly.

_ “Thunderclash will want to—” _ the other security mech started, but—

_ “Thunderclash will be coming nowhere near these things!” _ Red Alert practically screeched, ramping all the way back up to full volume in a nanoklik.  _ “Who knows what their plan was! They could have been here to assassinate him!” _

_ “Red Alert’s right,” _ Fort Max soothed the stunned looking security mech.  _ “With the risk that they may be able to undo the blocks Ratchet and Ambulon have put on them, it’s better he come nowhere near them.” _

_ “Do you need me to stay then, or shall I distract Thunderclash with that welcome party?”  _ Ratchet turned to Ambulon.  _ “I can run through initiating stasis for them with you first, if you’re not comfortable with it.” _

_ “I think I need the rundown, yeah.” _

_ “Okay then: start by…”  _

It didn’t take long to make sure Ambulon knew what to do, even with the other officers bustling about and setting up for the interrogations around them. Ratchet checked with them one last time before leaving, then took himself off to find Thunderclash.

He didn’t really expect them to still be at the airlock, but he checked there anyway. Nothing. Unsurprised, Ratchet resisted the urge to ping Red Alert to look for them with the ship’s cameras. Red Alert would not appreciate the interruption, and Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted to know just how many cameras there were in each of the hallways; he fully expected the security director had spent his enforced leave on Hedonia buying surveillance equipment and had been secretly installing it since.

It wasn’t a completely bad idea though. Knowing Red Alert was busy in the brig, he pinged the security office to ask the mech on duty there. He got Inferno, and a klik later he was headed to Perceptor’s lab.

The door was standing open when he arrived, but he still knocked as he stepped inside. “Hello?”

Everyone turned to look, Perceptor, of course, Rodimus, Drift, Ultra Magnus, and—

“Ratchet?” Thunderclash exclaimed happily. “I didn’t know you were posted on this ship.”

“Thunders!” Ratchet half-hugged, half-let-himself-be-pulled-into-a-hug. “It’s great to see you! How’ve you been?”

“Oh you know, currently not dying.” Thunderclash was one of the few mechs who could sweep Ratchet up off his feet almost effortlessly, and the  _ only _ one he’d allow to do it without warning. “So pretty good. And you!” He put Ratchet back down and stepped back to take a good look at him. “You look good! You’ve let your polish degrade, as usual, but it’s not as bad as last time I saw you. You’re taking better care of yourself.”

“Side effect of actually having some downtime,” Ratchet said with a grin. “I’ve got so much help in the medbay here I keep running out of things to do.” Which had been true even  _ before _ he’d taken on Blueray and his like minded cohorts as scutwork help. Now he couldn’t even kill time by scrubbing the berths.

“Well, it’s about time!”

“Eh. It’s alright.” He was surprised how easy it had been to get used to as the new normal. “So what brings you all the way out here? And are you staying long enough to enjoy the welcome party I organized with all that newfangled free time?”

“A  _ welcome party? _ For  _ me?” _ Thunderclash sounded surprised. Of course the giant teal menace was surprised people wanted to meet him; he always was. “Why would anyone come to a silly thing like that?” But he let Ratchet tow him toward the hall by the hand.

“Beats me,” Ratchet heard Rodimus say, just loud enough to be heard. “You’re just going to run off to the party now? I thought this was all important and stuff!”

“He doesn’t need to stand around doing nothing while I work out whether or not we can accomplish what he needs,” Perceptor said evenly. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have a solution. By all means, in the meantime, enjoy the party.”

“What you need?” Ratchet repeated, concerned.

“Just a little problem with the  _ Vis Vitalis’ _ engine,” Thrunderclash clarified out in the hall. “Nothing wrong with the spark support, of course,” he clutched his teal-and-white bird-covered chest in demonstration that he was still standing and not currently dead, “just the engine. Your generous captain has offered to have his science staff look at the problem and promised whatever aid he can provide to get us on our way.”

“Mind if I come with you?” Drift called after them, hovering in the doorway to the lab. He was smiling, but Ratchet noticed a false note to it, like the Happy Autobot mask he’d stopped wearing quite so often. “I’m not really any use for the science or engineering things.”

“Sure,” Ratchet said, waving Drift to follow them. “As long as Rodimus doesn’t still need you for something else.” Like a captive audience to whine at. Ratchet hadn’t missed the irritated looks the captain had been shooting Thunderclash. Of course he hadn’t wanted them to go off to the party, if it meant having him around longer. But Perceptor was right that leaving him to work would be just as fast as standing around. 

“Roddy’ll be fine,” Drift said, trotting to catch up. Thunderclash stepped to the side to let him slide in next to Ratchet. “So… How do you two know each other?” he asked brightly.

“This mech,” Ratchet pointed at Thunderclash, “helped me get through med school! I don’t know where I’d have been without him.”

“Really?”

“You would have been fine,” Thunderclash declared, waving one arm expansively. “It was just a study group for electives.”

“Electives that were required and that I was struggling with, big time,” Ratchet said, not willing to let him downplay how much his help had meant to him. “He kept the whole group organized and on track, and encouraged everyone when we wanted to just throw in the towel and give up.”

“Admirable of him,” Drift said more genuinely.

“Then we’d all go out and celebrate when our exams were done,” Thunderclash continued the fond reminiscing. “Drink too much and dance until we all literally fell over. Ratchet was such a workaholic, even then. Post-exam parties were the only time I saw him lighten up.”

“I like keeping busy. Always have. I’d have skipped out on those parties too,” Ratchet said without any actual heat behind the words, “except that you insisted everyone had to come.”

“You seem to like all the various parties on the  _ Lost Light _ just fine,” Drift pointed out. “No one dragged you to the exorcism, or any of the others.”

_ “You _ attended a Spectralist exorcism?” Thunderclash was understandably incredulous.

“I attended the party following the exorcism,” Ratchet corrected. It wasn’t like he could have escaped the lanterns if he’d tried! Though they hadn’t been all  _ that  _ bad, really. “Which, yes, I enjoyed. But it’s different now than it was back then. Back then, partying felt like a waste of time, but after a while… Fight a war long enough, and celebrating being alive doesn’t seem so stupid anymore.”

“I definitely understand that. Besides,” Thunderclash’s grin turned wicked, “it’s not like you spent the entire time sulking in a corner, even back then.”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “If I had to be there I might as well have made the best of it, and after a big exam  _ was  _ a good time to knock back a few and relax. He just wants to hear me say he was right,” Ratchet stage-whispered to Drift.

“I was, though,” Thunderclash said before Drift could respond. “I could tell your friends some embarrassing stories…”

“Don’t you dare!” Ratchet’s stern glare was completely ruined by the grin breaking through at the corners of his mouth. “At least have the decency to wait until I’m drunk enough not to care before you start.”

“Funny how many of those stories start with you too drunk to care,” Thunderclash heckled.

“I don’t need to hear anything Ratchet thinks is embarrassing,” Drift defended, bumping their shoulders in silent support as they walked. Ratchet automatically reached for his hand, squeezing it in thanks.

Thunderclash noticed when he didn’t let go. Ratchet rolled his optics at the unspoken question in his arched brow ridge. “Yes, we’re together.”

“Good for you! Finally!” 

The big lump didn’t have to sound so happy about it. “Oh, be quiet,” Ratchet said, but he couldn’t keep the  _ contentment  _ out of his field. “We’re almost there. Should I let them know you’re here, or do you want to just walk in and surprise them?”

“Let’s not keep anyone waiting, just walk in and surprise them.”

“You got it.” It would be more fun that way anyway. “We’ll see how many people are already there, and how many more show up once word starts getting around.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want to deprive anyone of the chance.” With two great strides, he went right up to the door, which slid open at his approach. “Hello, everyone!”

Ratchet couldn’t see past him, but he heard Swerve’s “eeeeeeep!” and a moment later the other mechs inside started to clap; the clacking of Whirl’s claws was rather distinctive.

“And yet, he somehow thinks he won’t be this popular,” Ratchet said quietly to Drift as a sizeable crowd gathered around Thunderclash. 

“I’ve noticed he does tend to make a good impression,” Drift said, rather neutrally.

“He’s a good mech.” Ratchet took a closer look at Drift. “Are you okay? You seem a bit…” 

“I’m fine.” Drift stroked down Ratchet’s arm, reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re sure,” Ratchet said, not completely convinced but willing to take the statement at face value for now. “Let me know if there’s something I can do to help though, alright?”

Drift’s unoccupied hand flexed a few times while he considered, then he shook his head with a sigh. “I don’t think there’s anything. Sorry, Ratch.”

“I’m sorry too,” Ratchet said, leaning in to gently bunt their helms together. “But I won’t pry. Do you want something to drink? The selection’s a bit more limited here than at Swerve’s, but there’s still a non-intoxicating option.” Ratchet had made sure of it, in case the  _ Lost Light’s _ few teetotalers had wanted to come.

“Sure.” Drift bunted back. “You’re the best.”

“Lies,” Ratchet chuckled, then walked over to get their drinks — and see if Swerve had managed to recover. “You alright down there?” he asked the flustered minibot.

“He asked me my name,” Swerve squeaked back. “I mean,” he shook himself. “What would you like to drink? The house special this evening is the Ratchet’s Rusty Wrench becausethat’swhatThunderclashjustordered.”

“Really?” Ratchet smiled, even though he had nothing to do with the drink besides the name. “I think I’ll start with my usual though, and one of the engex-free spritzers.”

“Coming right up!”

A klik later, Swerve placed both drinks on the temporary bar. Ratchet took one in each hand, letting Swerve put them on his tab this time as he turned around and scanned the room for Drift. Already there were several more mechs than when they’d first arrived; Ratchet suspected that everyone who wasn’t either on duty or laid up in the medbay would be making an appearance at some point. Except, perhaps, Rodimus. Maybe that was what was going on with Drift. He didn’t like to talk about his disagreements with the captain, and it was clear that Rodimus was being rather juvenile about their guest.

Drift wasn’t gathered around Thunderclash in the center of the room; he had claimed a space by the wall where he could watch. His smile at Ratchet’s approach was bright and genuine. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Ratchet handed him his drink, then settled beside him against the wall. “I hope Perceptor’s able to work something out for their engine. Though either way, I guess it’s lucky they contacted us.”

“Perceptor’ll do it,” Drift said confidently.

“Especially if Brainstorm stays here?” Ratchet could see the other scientist at the edge of the crowd around Thunderclash, near where Whirl was carving a path so First Aid could get in closer. “I should make sure First Aid gets a chance to see our new prisoners before Red Alert figures out how to ‘get rid of them’,” he said, sipping his drink. “It’s a good opportunity, even if it’s a less than ideal situation.”

“So you knew what they were? The rest of us weren’t too sure.”

“It’s been a long time, but yeah.” Ratchet launched into the story of his first encounter with the Ammonite Stentarians, slowly drawing a few others over to their patch of wall as they realized there was something interesting going on. Thunderclash must have already started telling stories about him because several mechs asked for more stories about how Ratchet knew him when he finished his first story, and after refreshing his drink, Ratchet continued telling stories and mingling rather than returning to the sidelines.

Drift, interestingly, stayed nearby at all times, almost hovering on occasion. It wasn’t really an issue, but it was noticeable, and the only time Ratchet was able to get away from him was when Drift took a turn going back to the bar for the two of them. Then he was back like a second shadow, and Ratchet just shrugged it off as part of whatever was bothering him. They could talk about it later if he kept doing it.

Breems and then joors flew by with stories and drinks. Ratchet only noticed the shift change by the change in faces around him, and he smiled and waved as Blaster came in. The host mech made a disparaging gesture in regards to his sobriety, and Ratchet replied with a gesture that would have made Whirl proud. He was still perfectly steady on his feet; just intoxicated enough not to object to Thunderclash regaling his audience with a tale of one of their post-exam study group parties — even if it did feature a much younger, much drunker version of himself pathetically throwing himself at Thunderclash.

“Ratchet?” Ambulon called cautiously from a short distance away, with a wary look toward Drift. “Could I talk to you for a few kliks? Alone?”

“Sure.” Was there something else about the prisoners? Ratchet checked his call logs to make sure he hadn’t missed anyone trying to get ahold of him as he walked over, remarkably sans Drift. “Is everything alright?”

“In the hall.” Ambulon wove his way through the crowd, his EM field held tight and worried close to his plating. Still unsure what was going on, Ratchet followed.

“You told me you’d tell me,” Ambulon turned and hissed once they were away from the party, “or security! — if he started acting,” he made a grasping gesture with one hand, as though trying to reach out and grab the right word, “like… like Deadlock! Come on. We’re going now.”

“Going? Going where?” To security? To report Drift? For what? “I think one of us is confused,” Ratchet said slowly, “and I’m not sure who it is. What is he doing that’s like Deadlock?”

“That,” he gestured toward the party, “that  _ don’t touch that, it belongs to me _ hovering he’s doing!” Ambulon shuddered. “How long has that been going on? He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

“No, he hasn’t hurt me. And he’s only been hovering since…” Ratchet paused, thinking. He’d been about to say since the party started, but that wasn’t entirely true. “It only started after Thunderclash arrived. He got between us in the hall on the way here and has stayed close ever since.” 

Ambulon’s gaze darted over to the door again, as though afraid Drift would come storming through to chase him off. “Just Thunderclash? No one else?”

“Just… yes, just Thunderclash,” Ratchet said, replaying the last several (slightly hazy) joors in his processor. “He hasn’t been aggressive toward anyone, he’s just been  _ there,  _ apart from the time he went to get us drinks. And now, but Thunderclash is still in there, so I suppose he’s keeping an optic on him.”

“That’s…” Ambulon suddenly looked uncertain. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “I’ve never heard of that.” He backed off and paced a bit. “You should still go to security?”

“I think maybe I should have a talk with Drift first,” Ratchet said, less inclined now to let Drift brush him off. “If that doesn’t go well, I will keep my promise and tell you.”

“Next cycle,” Ambulon insisted. “You’ll tell me something next cycle, after the game.”

“One way or another, yes,” he agreed. If Drift was aware of his own behavior — and Ratchet suspected he was — then he would probably be reassuring Ambulon rather than asking for his support in going to security, but still. Clearly multiple conversations were needed, and it might just be time to force the issue between them and involve Rung. 

“Alright. I’ll wait.” Ambulon glanced at the door. “I should probably go recharge, though. Big game and all.”

“First of the ‘season’. Good luck with that. Maybe Thunderclash will come and watch.” And wouldn’t  _ that  _ make Rodimus happy. The thought made Ambulon perk up, though. “I’ll talk with you after.”

“You better.” 

Ratchet watched him leave and considered what to do. Confronting Drift before the promised time meant confronting him before they went on shift. Because both the other medics and both the bridge officers would be busy during the game itself, they’d arranged for their shifts to coincide (Ultra Magnus was technically on shift even, since refereeing could be considered troubleshooting, given how all the troublemakers would be in or watching the game), so Ratchet wouldn’t see him then. But right now he was still tipsy, which wasn’t the best state of mind to be in to have that sort of discussion.

Damn. He looked down at the drink in his hand. Guess it needed to be his last one.

He was much more aware of Drift’s hovering when he went back in to the party, noticing how he kept getting between him and Thunderclash. He was trying to be subtle about it, but as natural as he made his movements, there was no denying the possessive lurking now that Ratchet was looking for it. The lack of overt aggression hadn’t been obliviousness on Ratchet’s part though; he really wasn’t threatening anyone with anything other than his physical proximity, which he was careful to keep friendly. No growling engine, no bared teeth, no hands casually resting on his swords. 

No missing the way Ratchet had started watching him more closely. He looked away, shoulders drooping a bit at having been caught out. But he didn’t move out from between Ratchet and Thunderclash, who was, fortunately, on the other side of the room, regaling Swerve, Skids and Sunstreaker with some story of his adventures.

Ratchet didn’t go out of his way to provoke him — not because he was afraid, but because it wouldn’t be nice, and he had already gotten to speak to Thunderclash earlier — but he did keep consciously checking the time and how sober he was getting, and as soon as he felt comfortable, made his excuses to leave. Drift stayed in his almost guard-like position when he approached Thunderclash to say goodbye, but didn’t interfere. Ratchet told Thunderclash that he wasn’t allowed to leave without seeing him one more time, and advised that he should check out the lob ball match, since the giant teal menace would enjoy that. There was no need to stick around and explain, since several others eagerly stepped up to tell the story; Ratchet motioned Drift to come with him and they quietly slipped out of the party.

“So,” he said casually once they were far enough down the hall. “I think we need to talk about something.” 

Drift’s shoulders drooped again. “Yeah.”

“Your quarters or mine?”

“I want you in mine,” Drift said after a klik. “Which,” he continued with a sigh, “means we should probably go to yours.”

“Then we’ll go to mine.” Ratchet held out his hand, offering. “Shall we?”

Drift still smiled when he took Ratchet’s hand.

The walk wasn’t very long. Well it was, but it could be worse; they could have been walking all the way from the engine room. They let it pass in a comfortable silence. Ratchet paid careful attention to Drift’s EM field — not a 100% accurate gauge of mood, since he had fairly good field control, but he was pleased to note that he didn’t seem overly worried or nervous, either about the people they passed in the hall, or about the upcoming conversation. Just his usual happiness at being in Ratchet’s presence and a small amount of shame, probably at his earlier behavior.

Once inside, he carefully put aside all three of his swords near the door, and stepped away from them. Ratchet consciously didn’t cross his arms, wanting to be as non-confrontational as possible. “Was that you being jealous?”

Drift flinched, but, “Yes,” he admitted frankly. “Or possessive, since I know there’s probably nothing for me to be jealous of.”

“There really isn’t. Thunderclash and I go way back, but friends is all we’ve ever been, and all I want to be with him.”

“And I do not control who you’re friends with. Not at all. I just…” His hands both flexed once, tightening, then consciously relaxing and Ratchet again tried to remember if Deadlock had had claws. “I’m being dumb,” he finished.

“Having feelings isn’t dumb,” Ratchet said, meaning every word. “How you act on them might cause problems, but the feelings themselves aren’t dumb, and neither are you. You knew what you were doing and were trying not to get carried away, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Drift looked away. “It may have taken Wing practically beating the lessons into me, but I did eventually catch on that my behavior was inappropriate.”

“Among Autobots, yes.” Ratchet considered what Ambulon had told him. “I’m guessing possessiveness was more of a thing among the Decepticons?”

Drift fidgeted, then backed up to slide down the wall and sit on the floor. “Yes. It was creepy and scary and wrong there too, but it was very common.”

“And therefore wound up being a habit.” Ratchet sat down on the edge of his berth so he wouldn’t be standing over Drift. “I probably don’t need to say this, but Ambulon noticed you hovering.”

“Since you started watching me after he talked to you? I figured.”

“I’d already noticed you sticking close, but I just assumed you were in a clingy mood.” Ratchet smiled, not having a problem with said clingy moods. “He was concerned though, and once he gave me the context to look for… Why Thunderclash? You haven’t been,” he paused, trying to think of the right word, “territorial around anyone else on the ship.”

“Because he’s… he’s Thunderclash, and I’m a ex-Decepticon who’s still too much of a Decepticon,” Drift answered plaintively. “And he did make a good impression; he used a traditional Spectralist greeting and saw — and understood — how I was changing the color of my optics in response to the mood. I really want to like him. I  _ do _ like him. But so do you, a  _ lot _ more than the instant hero worship everyone else is caught up in. A lot more than I expected you to. There’s  _ history _ there, and I can’t compete with… with  _ Thunderclash.” _ He folded his arms over his knees and lowered his head to rest on them. “All I could do was defend my claim, and even in that, I’m too much a Decepticon still.”

Ratchet sighed. He wasn’t  _ not  _ taking this seriously, but compared to how Drift and Ambulon were reacting, he felt as if he was missing something for not being as upset as they were. “Put that way, I can see how Thunderclash would be a little intimidating. But you’re obviously not Decepticon enough in that respect for Ambulon to insist on an intervention right then and there. He was worried, but also uncertain, and that tells me you’re doing better than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

Drift quirked a rather self-deprecating smile. “Funnily enough, I am aware that I didn’t maim him for coming near you.”

“O~kay…” Ratchet hadn’t been aware that had been a concern, but it  _ did _ kind of fill in the gap between his own and Ambulon’s understanding of the situation. Especially if the other half of it — punishing the less empowered mech for “straying” — had been common in his experience as well. “Not maiming people for doing things they aren’t even aware is coming across as threatening is a good thing, yes.”

“Not that I could have succeeded,” Drift offered as a mild joke. “It’d be like attacking Optimus Prime, or Megatron. I’d get flattened. Deadlock still would have tried, though.”

“But Drift didn’t,” Ratchet emphasized. “I know you said earlier that there wasn’t anything I could do, but I think maybe I can. If this is stemming from a desire to visibly lay claim to me and feeling insecure around certain people, then coming up with more acceptable ways to reassure you should help, right?”

Drift tilted his head, regarding Ratchet for a moment. “You don’t think it’s just wrong?”

“To feel possessive of me? No. Anyway if it is, then we’re both guilty. There’s a reason I told Thunderclash we were together.”

Drift finally came out of his huddle against the wall, coming over to lean on Ratchet’s leg. “Did you think I’d like him more than you?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything specifically,” Ratchet said, resting a hand (a bit possessively) on Drift’s head. “I just wanted it clear and understood that you were taken, and so was I.”

“You did that with the crew too,” Drift realized, leaning into the touch, completely unbothered by any possessive overtones. “Right after we agreed we belonged to each other.”

“I did, yes, and pretty much for the same reason.” Everyone had already known they were together by that point, but, “Announcing it like that lets people know we’re exclusive — at least to the point that they know to check with both of us before making any assumptions. Though of course it varies depending on the mechs involved; we’d already been pretty exclusive in our attentions.”

“We had,” Drift acknowledged. “I wasn’t pursuing anyone but you.”

“And I wasn’t making any overtures either.” Even casual hookups had fallen off Ratchet’s radar a long time ago, never mind the idea of a relationship. He didn’t regret it, though. As unexpected as it had been, he didn’t regret it. “So while we don’t technically  _ need  _ to keep making declarations, I’m not against saying it more often.”

“You’re mine,” Drift said immediately, and this time Ratchet heard the possessiveness the words implied, as well as the protection and desire and care they’d previously discussed. “And I’m yours,” he invited Ratchet to feel all those things about him. “I suppose putting a ‘Property of Drift’ decal on you is a bit much,” he teased.

“Sorry, but I’m going to have to reject that idea,” Ratchet said firmly. “I don’t mind if being nearby helps, though. Brushing arms, holding hands,” he brushed along one of Drift’s finials, “is fine. I’d rather have a clingy, affectionate lover than a twitchy bodyguard.”

“Alright.” Drift smiled up at Ratchet. “But only because I know you don’t really need protection from Thunderclash.”

“Nope. I won’t ask you not to be protective in an actual combat situation,” that would be like asking water not to be wet, and Ratchet knew it, “but Thunderclash is completely harmless. Did he finish telling that story about my drunken attempts to flirt with him after I left?”

Ratchet felt a tiny vibration that might have been from Drift’s engine, but if he was growling, he wasn’t letting it get loud enough to be audible. “Yeah. He very valiantly escorted you home, tucked you into your berth, and left a cube of midgrade and a copy of a hangover cure by your bedside.”

“Exactly. He really is just that good a mech, and he would never try to come between us. It would be dishonorable. Plus,” Ratchet tweaked the tip of the finial he was stroking, “I’d dump him in the oil reservoir if he tried it.”

“I would…” Drift considered, pausing, probably to reject the first, or even the first few, things that came to mind. “I’d glue him to the exterior of the  _ Vis Vitalis,” _ he decided.

Ratchet snickered. “So he can be the literal figurehead for the ship, as well as its captain?” He suspected Drift was actually being fairly serious, but since Thunderclash wasn’t really going to try to come between them, the discussion was entirely academic. At least he wasn’t planning anything fatal or permanently crippling for the throngs of imaginary suitors out there. That was a good first step. “Let me know next time we run into someone that sets off those old instincts so we can talk about it, alright?”

“Alright.” Drift nuzzled Ratchet’s hand, which was still stroking his finials soothingly. “I will,” he promised.

“Thank you. And I,” Ratchet promised back, “will gladly tell any and everyone that you’re mine and I’m yours.”

“You’re the best.”

“Can’t be. Someone else already has that title,” Ratchet said, pointedly tapping Drift’s helm. 

“Thunderclash?” Drift asked, deliberately obtuse.

“Maybe according to everyone else on the ship, but I was talking about you.”

Drift’s EM field blushed. “May I stay here until our shifts start?”

“Yes.” More than letting him stay, Ratchet wanted him to. “You could even come up here with me, if you want. Comfortable as I’m sure the floor is.”

“Alright. I just need to,” he squirmed out from under Ratchet’s hand before standing. He retrieved his swords and arranged them in their usual spot when he stayed over — under the berth, in reach but out of the way — before sitting next to Ratchet. After a moment, he cuddled up to Ratchet’s side and reached out to take his hand.

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	23. Chapter 23

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Ratchet told First Aid to get out of the medbay and to make sure that he actually recharged before his next shift around all the sportsball silliness. Since Ambulon was the one actually on a team, and thus absolutely couldn’t duck out of either the game or the afterparty, Ratchet would be taking his shift, serving a double. Wouldn’t be his first, wouldn’t be his last, and it was under much better circumstances than an influx of critically wounded soldiers, so he was happy to do it.

Someone (almost certainly Blaster) had dedicated a communication channel to broadcast the audio from the game, accompanied by a running description and commentary by an announcer (also Blaster), for those mechs who couldn’t get off shift to attend in person. Ratchet wasn’t really interested, but Blueray had (tentatively and submissively) indicated he was, so he went ahead and let it play it on the medbay’s intercom speakers.

It was… exciting, Ratchet guessed. If Blueray was rooting for anyone while he finished fixing the tubing from that crate, he didn’t say.

As he’d expected, all of the injuries he had to deal with could be directly attributed to the game. First Aid had taken some supplies to deal with anything urgent courtside, but Ratchet still got his share of the idiots being sent on to him. He was pleasantly surprised by the general lack of severity, however. Ultra Magnus was doing an excellent job squashing any fights before they could get truly out of hand; a fact that Blaster was lamenting somewhat as taking all the fun out of things, but which Ratchet appreciated. And he wasn’t “Team Ref’s” only supporter, either. Ultra Magnus got a significant number of cheers for his work, which Ratchet imagined would make Rodimus gleeful over a plan well executed. Based on some of the commentary, Ratchet surmised at least a few mechs had made Team Ref banners.

He was a  _ little _ surprised when none of the seriously injured — or even any of the fights — had come from the rivalry between Ambulon and Whirl. While it was obvious they were trying to outdo each other, even Whirl was being relatively careful about collateral damage. For Whirl. Ratchet decided not to question it and settled for being glad that the worst he had to deal with came from a pile-up that (perhaps he should have anticipated) Rodimus had started. Thunderclash’s presence among the spectators hadn’t done the captain’s temper any favors.

Maybe that was why the Happy Weasels won. It  _ certainly _ wasn’t Ambulon’s fault! He’d done fantastically. Smokescreen’s observation had been spot on: Ambulon just couldn’t be tackled by anyone in his size class, and since neither team had any oversized players… Damn. Ratchet had sort of been hoping his fellow medic would win.

Of course spontaneous — and not-so-spontaneous — parties immediately broke out all over the ship when the match was over. Ratchet wasn’t sorry to be missing them. He hadn’t been lying when he said he enjoyed parties now more than he had back at university, but the level of off-the-wall energy mechs celebrating sportsball generated still wasn’t his favorite thing. He was happy to have gone to Thunderclash’s welcome party and leave this round of carousing to First Aid and Ambulon. He remembered to send a message to Ambulon stating that he’d talked to Drift about his hovering, everything was fine, and they could talk more when they both had time.

Blueray watched the parade of minor injuries with some surprise. Ratchet could tell he was trying to stay in the background and avoid drawing attention to himself, so he waited for a lull to ask, “What is it? You look like you’ve got a question.”

“No! I mean, kind of, but…” Ratchet waited patiently, and Blueray finally blurted out, “Wouldn’t most of that heal on its own?”

“The stuff they’re coming in with right now? Yes, it would. But we have the time and the materials to repair stuff like that, so we do.” Not something the Decepticon crew would have had much experience with recently, given the conditions they’d been operating under. “Full medical care is part of serving on the ship, though not everyone takes advantage of it.” There were some crew members Ratchet only saw when they were actively dying, while others came in for the tiniest of dents and scratches.

“Oh.” Blueray looked down at his own now perfectly repaired plating. Ratchet was sure that had felt like a taunt when he’d done it, but he wasn’t letting one of his patients out in less than perfect condition if he could help it. “I suppose it’s a tradeoff?” he asked hesitantly. “Since repairs use more materials, but self-repair uses more fuel?”

“That’s a good way of looking at it,” Ratchet nodded. “One way or another the ‘cost’ of repairs will come out somewhere. It’s nice to finally be able to offer that choice.” He hardly needed to tell Blueray that there had been times during the war where both materials and fuel had been perilously scarce. “Unless leaving the injury to heal on its own would take a mech off the duty roster for a prolonged period of time. Then they’re stuck dealing with me.”

Blueray’s highly mobile turbohound ears twitched. He was saved from having to say anything by the door opening; he quickly ducked back down to concentrate on his work, as though afraid of getting in trouble with their visitor, even though Ratchet was the only person he could get in trouble with.

“This is cozy,” Thunderclash said as Ratchet turned to see who it was. “I don’t see a single trophy taken from past miscreants who attempted to defy their medical overlord, though.”

“Trophies and souvenirs are more First Aid’s thing,” Ratchet said blandly. “Did you enjoy the game?”

“Oh yes! It was great!” Thunderclash glanced over at Blueray, then looked back at Ratchet with a raised optic ridge. “They’re all excellent players. Thank you for suggesting I attend.”

“I thought it might be to your liking, and your timing was perfect for it. This is Blueray,” Ratchet said with a vague gesture at the poorly hiding beastformer. “He’s one of the Decepticons trading work shifts for better accommodations. Blueray, Thunderclash.”

Blueray’s optics darted to Ratchet, then back to Thunderclash. There was no way he didn’t know who he was; Blaster had mentioned him several times during the broadcast, and the patients had not been discreet. “You’re a very big gaudy Autobot,” he sneered, as though to prove just how not-cooperative he was being.

“Giant teal menace is my usual go-to,” Ratchet said, and Thunderclash laughed. Even Brawn, bored from sitting through yet another uneventful shift of prisoner guard duty, chuckled at that. “Did you just swing by to chat? We can step into the office for a bit, as long as no one comes in.”

“Perfect.” Thunderclash bowed shallowly to Blueray. “So very pleased to meet you, Blueray.”

Blueray buried his nose back in his work, and Ratchet led the way into the office. “I heard Perceptor’s going to be able to jumpstart your ship,” he said, offering the chair to Thunderclash.

“I couldn’t possibly take your chair, Ratchet.”

“It’s anyone’s chair,” Ratchet waved him off. “I think First Aid spends the most time there of the three of us.”

“Thank you.” Thunderclash gingerly sat in the chair, testing that it would take his weight before fully committing. Which, of course, he was  _ fine. _ That chair was made for  _ medics; _ Fort Max and Thunderclash could both sit on that chair, at the same time, and it’d still hold. “I meant what I said: you look a lot happier than the last time I saw you. This post is good for you.”

“Is it really so noticeable?” But Ratchet couldn’t deny that, compared to the tired, defeated mech he’d been when he first boarded the  _ Lost Light,  _ he was much, much happier. “It’s interesting. I came out here on this journey to… I guess you could say put my affairs in order. Sounds terrible when I say it now, but there you go. I didn’t expect to find what I did.”

“Your paramour,” Thunderclash said with certainty.

“Not just Drift,” Ratchet said, unable to keep from smiling, “but he’s a big part of it.”

“I hope my presence isn’t causing him distress,” Thunderclash offered gently. “You’re a dear friend; I’m not competition for your affections.”

“Ah. You noticed that?” Ratchet shook his head. “You’re fine. We talked about it before the game.”

“Oh, good,” he sighed in relief. “So what did the two of you agree to? Am I supposed to stay away from you?” he teased. “I don’t want to drive over anyone’s tires here.”

“You’re  _ fine,”  _ Ratchet repeated, torn between being annoyed and amused. “Policing my friendships isn’t what he wants. He agreed to let me know when he’s feeling possessive, and I agreed to be more obvious about being off the market.”

“Sounds like a good compromise,” Thunderclash agreed. “I’m very happy for you.”

Ratchet was a little surprised by how good that felt to hear. “Thank you. Really.”

“So…” Thunderclash gave Ratchet a surprisingly wicked smile. “How is he in the berth? It’s,” he added at Ratchet’s vaguely shocked expression, “my duty as your friend to harass you about your relationship, and collect all the gossip I can.”

“Well, as my  _ friend  _ you know perfectly well that I don’t gossip,” Ratchet said with exaggerated primness, then winked. “And he’s better than you’ll ever know.”

_ Knock. Knock.  _

“Coming.” Ratchet turned to the door and opened it to find— “Drift?”

“Hi,” the white mech answered sheepishly. “So, uh, want to hold hands?”

Ratchet skipped right over hand holding and pulled Drift into the office and into a hug. “Heard he was here, did you?”

“Yeah.” Drift snuggled into the embrace.

“Well, you got here right after we finished establishing how happy I am with you.” Ratchet projected  _ reassurance  _ in his field to go along with the hug. “I’m still yours.”

Drift’s field settled. “And I’m yours.”

“Yup. Hear that, Thunders? You can’t have him.” Ratchet grinned over Drift’s shoulder. 

“Was that even a possibility?” Drift asked, slightly alarmed, while Thunderclash laughed.

“No, it wasn’t,” Ratchet said. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have joked about that.”

“It’s okay.” Drift calmed. “It’s okay. It’s funny.” He stepped away, but kept Ratchet’s hand in his. “It’s just kind of an intimidating thought.”

“Intimidation was certainly never my intent,” Thunderclash said with a strange flicker of his optics.

“Apology accepted,” Drift responded. “I’ll just… go not be a stalker now.”

“Actually,” Thunderclash said before he could disappear. “I was hoping to speak with you. I may not be a Spectralist, but there aren’t any on the  _ Vis Vitalis _ I can discuss visions with.”

“Visions and quests?” Ratchet guessed. “My favorite subjects.”

“Really?” Drift chirped sweetly. “I thought  _ auras _ were your favorite.”

“Can you see auras?” Thunderclash asked excitedly, eliciting a slightly wary look from Drift. “Wait, hold on. You’re a sybil, at least, so yes, you can see auras.”

“Yeah?”

“Is it rude to ask what mine looks like?”

“No. It isn’t. It’s…” Drift looked Thunderclash over intently. “Silver is the most obvious color, but there’s a lot of bright, royal blue, and a slight undertone of… lavender.” He nodded. “Soft, bright versions of both. As though we needed any further confirmation that you’re a good person.”

“I take it those colors mean positive things?” Ratchet huffed at the surprised look Thunderclash turned on him.  _ “No,  _ I’m not suddenly interested in auras. We’ve had some interesting discussions about color theory though, especially when it comes to optics.”

“Really?”

“Spectralist philosophy doesn’t assign meaning to optic color unless the mech chooses it deliberately,” Drift said firmly.

“What about choosing to keep the color you’re forged with?” Thunderclash asked. “That’s a deliberate choice, too.”

“Before you get too deep into this discussion,” Ratchet interrupted, knowing it could get very deep, very quickly, “is it alright if I leave you to it and get back to work? You can keep using the office, I don’t need it,” he said before Thunderclash could stand up, “but I’ve got things to do and mechs to look after out there.”

“Yeah, you should probably go tell… it’s Blueray, right? Blueray I’m not going to kill him,” Drift teased. “I didn’t do anything to him, but…” 

“But he’d probably feel better if I tell him you didn’t even notice him, assuming he’ll believe me on that.” 

“It might work; I didn’t talk to him.” 

Ratchet just laughed and squeezed Drift’s hand one more time, then let go. “If you’re still in here when I get off shift, I’ll come in to make sure you haven’t gotten lost in the mysteries of the universe.”

Drift leaned forward and bunted their helms together. “Don’t work too hard.”

“Not today,” Ratchet promised.

It proved to be an easy promise to keep. Blueray wasn’t interested in being soothed, of course, despite “Deadlock’s” presence obviously rattling him, but Ratchet was able to successfully distract him. Demonstrating minor repair tasks took up whatever time he didn’t have to dedicate to drunken daredevils too sure of their own coordination in a comfortable ebb and flow, and almost before he knew it, First Aid was arriving for his shift.

“Do I even want to know what you’re singing?” Ratchet asked, giving him a critical once-over. “Or how much you had to drink?”

“It’s the Happiest Weassals’ Winners Anthem!” First Aid caroled back. “Oh! Hi. Everything’s so  _ shiny _ in here!”

“You’re going to hate that once you take one of these,” Ratchet said as he handed him a hangover chip. It was petty, but he felt sliiightly vindicated that this time he wasn’t the one who would be suffering. “At least I’ll have the decency to talk quietly.”

“Yeah… no drunk on duty!” First Aid took the chip willingly enough, and only fumbled a  _ little _ inserting it into the topmost port at the back of his neck. It ran automatically, as designed, and Ratchet knew the moment it took effect because First Aid’s field went from bubbly and happy to pained. “Owww…”

“What? No more winner’s anthem?” But Ratchet didn’t raise his voice, despite the teasing. “Go sit down for a few kliks. I don’t have anyone to pass on to you, though the office is probably being used for a seance at this point. I’ll be back to drag them out once Blueray’s back in his cell.”

“Thanks, Ratchet.” First Aid made his way a bit clumsily to the nearest berth; Ratchet was 99% sure he’d turned his optical sensors off. There, he collapsed onto it. Ratchet waited to make sure he wasn’t going to fall into powersave, then went to deal with Blueray.

Brawn already had the Decepticon in cuffs, but apparently they weren’t bothering with chaining his ankles this cycle. Progress, of a sort. But then, they’d both just served a double shift alongside Ratchet, and probably wanted to rest as soon as possible.

Ratchet could use some decent recharge too. “Let’s go,” he said, leading the way down the slightly shorter distance to the new prisoner quarters. Red Alert still wasn’t happy with how quickly they’d been set up, but since he’d also insisted on keeping the Stentarians in the brig until he finished interrogating every. Last. One of them, he’d given in and let them move the other cooperative prisoners the previous shift.

Blueray noticed they weren’t going the same route (or, rather, one of the three different routes Red Alert insisted on) from the medbay to the brig and Ratchet saw his turbodog ears twitch restlessly. He didn’t fight or object, though he remained confused when Ratchet stopped in front of the single set of secure quarters. There were three more rooms being prepared for them on this level, so they’d be no more than two to a room when they were done, but for now all seven of them were sharing the single room. Which technically meant it was more cramped than the cells had been for them, for now, but there were actual berths, and an actual door instead of energy bars. Of course cameras had been installed inside, which Fort Max and Red Alert would both be monitoring, but hopefully it’d feel less like a prison.

Ratchet pinged the door and waited for Fort Max’s signal that all the room’s occupants had moved away from the door as they’d been told to do, before turning back to Blueray. “We’ll get you all spaced out a bit more over the next few cycles, but it’s a start.” 

“We’re in quarters now?” he asked while Brawn undid the cuffs; Blueray lowered his clawed hands to a non threatening position at his sides. “Because of whatever happened last cycle?”

“Yeah. Our already strained space situation got even worse, so we needed to move you up here before all the rooms were completely ready. Like I said though, it won’t be this crowded for long.” Ratchet didn’t bother pointing out that, crowded or not, it meant they were all away from their less cooperative colleagues and their increasingly vile taunts and threats. Energy bars couldn’t stop voices from carrying unless they were at full power, creating a solid energy field, which wasn’t practical to use all the time. Separate quarters would be much better for everyone’s mental health than just separate cells.

Blueray just nodded. He’d figured out quick that Ratchet didn’t appreciate grovelling, and his pride wasn’t going to let him thank Ratchet (not that Ratchet  _ wanted _ thanks for this!) if it wasn’t required of him to avoid his temper.

“See you next shift,” Ratchet said, and opened the door. He closed it again as soon as Blueray stepped inside, not waiting to watch his reaction. Security could do that over the camera feed. For now, he had an office to clear out, and a berth calling his name.

.

.

.

Red Alert had insisted that Thunderclash take his collection of miniature security breaches with him when he finished his interrogations, since  _ his _ brig wasn’t already full of Decepticons! Thunderclash had been visibly saddened by the news that Paddox had always been the creation of the Stentarian — Ammonite Stentarian, specifically — deep cover agent(s) playing him. On the one hand, it was good news that a friend hadn’t died so that the Ammonites could get closer to him, but on the other, it meant the entire friendship had been a lie from the beginning. With the prisoner transfer complete and the  _ Vis Vitalis  _ revitalized, they were now in the hall right outside the airlock, which was a completely unremarkable corridor. Rewind was there to record it (of course), since he’d decided Thunderclash’s visit needed to be memorialized, but otherwise the only mechs present were officers — including Ratchet, who’d insisted on being present when Thunderclash said his goodbyes. 

“Perceptor tells me you drained a lot of power from your quantum engines to jumpstart the  _ Vis Vitalis,” _ Thunderclash was saying to Rodimus, who was doing a surprisingly good imitation of a responsible captain, happy to help out someone in need. Probably because he knew he was on camera. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your selflessness and integrity.”

“Well what was I supposed to do for a fellow Autobot in need of help?” Rodimus smiled sunnily. “I look forward to our crossing paths again, Thunderclash.”

“It was great getting to see you,” Ratchet said, clasping Thunderclash’s hand in a firm grip. “Take care of yourself out there.”

“You too.” Thunderclash nodded solemnly. “And I’m sorry your favored team lost.”

“My… what?”

“Your favored lob ball team,” Thunderclash’s serious expression cracked, and amusement shone through his optics. He tapped his own chest pointedly. “I’m sorry they lost. They’re a good team.”

“I don’t have a—” Ratchet broke off as he looked down at his windshield and saw the Team Mustache and Team Ref decals stuck right where he’d put them (and promptly forgotten about them) at Swerve’s theme night. “Why am I still wearing these?”

“Obviously to show support to your captain, his team, and — just as significantly — to the crew as a whole and their interests,” Thunderclash listed off blithely. 

“Right. Of course. That.” Ratchet looked up, making a note to scrub the stupid things off as soon as they were done with the goodbyes. “It’s Ambulon’s team. Medic solidarity.”

“Admirable.” Thunderclash swept Ratchet up into a hug. “It was good to see you. We have to do this more often. Actually arrange something, instead of randomly crossing paths every few hundred vorns.” 

“Stop being so busy saving the universe then,” Ratchet laughed. “Send word next time you’ve got a firm destination.”

“I will.” With one last affectionate squeeze, Thunderclash put Ratchet down. “Farewell. Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Ratchet stepped back to stand beside Drift. “I’ve got help now, at least.”

“Thank you,” Thunderclash turned his attention directly to the speedster in question. “Talking to you was quite helpful. Take care of that idiot,” he pointed to Ratchet. “He has a distressing tendency to overwork himself.”

“I’d noticed,” Drift said with a genuine smile. “It was nice meeting you.”

“But we’re keeping you from your quest with all these goodbyes!” Rodimus cut in, nowhere near as subtle as he probably thought he was being. “Good luck, safe travels, all that fun stuff.”

Thunderclash let himself be pushed. “And good luck to you as well, Captain.” He waved one last time from the far side of the airlock before the doors closed. It would take a few breems for the air to cycle so that the  _ Lost Light _ could detach safely from the  _ Vis Vitalis,  _ but effectively, he was gone. 

Rodimus rested his head against the door. Drift squeezed Ratchet’s hand once before going over to him. “Hey,” he soothed, putting one hand on Rodimus’ arm. 

The captain muttered something Ratchet didn’t catch. Rewind pestered him to repeat himself more clearly, but Rodimus shook his head. “I’m glad we were in the area and able to help,” he said, clearly speaking to the camera rather than from the spark. 

Ratchet could think of several snide things to say to that, but he settled for a shrug and turned to leave. “I think I’ll just go make good on that promise to take care of myself and find something to dissolve adhesive.”

“Thunderclash thought they were cool though,” Rewind said, readily switching targets from Rodimus’ scripted, uninteresting words to what Ratchet was doing. “Why would you want to get rid of them?”

“They’re on  _ my  _ frame, so  _ my  _ opinion of them is the only one that matters.” Ratchet started walking slowly, silently inviting Rewind to follow with his pace. Putting up with more inane questions was worth it to give Drift a chance to talk Rodimus down from whatever verbal explosion he was tiptoeing around. “I don’t care if we find the Knights of Cybertron and  _ they  _ say they’re cool, I’m done wearing them.”

“But you’ll be the only one not wearing any!”

“So?”

Rewind didn’t have a good answer for that. 

“I won’t be the only one not wearing them for long, anyway,” Ratchet said, taking the turn that led back to the medbay. “Unless there are a bunch of extras floating around to replace them as they get worn off. Or shot off,” he added.

“There’ll be a new printing of those, plus one of two champion match designs, before the last game of the season,” Rewind chirped, finally putting his camera away as he trotted alongside Ratchet. It didn’t mean he wasn’t recording, but at least he was done with the documentary for now. “Also, I got some awesome Team Ref designs I want to go over with Ultra Magnus.”

“So much for that hope,” Ratchet sighed. It had been a naive hope, given what he knew of the crew and their penchant for fads (some people probably still had folded foil decorations in their quarters), but it would have been nice if the sportsball merchandising could have come and gone as quickly. “I’m still getting rid of these.”

.

.

.

“So how much of it did you manage to read?” Drift asked in amusement, poking the datapad resting on the almost completely scribbled over desk. Displayed on it, Ratchet could see the rows and rows and rows of characteristically tiny text he and Drift had been fighting with since they’d started this project.

“I’ve been busy,” Rodimus said, ruining his image of a responsible and dedicated captain by peeling the back off of yet another sportsball decal and sticking it to his arm. He was already wearing about twenty of them, including two on his spoiler, which made Ratchet wonder just how he’d managed to twist his frame far enough to get them there. “Captain things! It’s,” he snapped to Ratchet’s incredulous look, “not  _ all _ scheduling games and harassing Ultra Magnus. In case you haven’t noticed, we still don’t have a definite course right now.”

“I had actually noticed that, yes,” Ratchet said, doing his best not to get too snarky right off the bat. “I noticed it when I was looking for a place we could safely incarcerate Overlord somewhere,” anywhere, “even remotely in this sector of space.”

“Yes, but we had Hedonia, then rescuing Thunderclash, as short term goals.”

“And they were important.” Even if Drift and Ultra Magnus had had just as much to do as Rodimus for those things, and Drift had still managed to spend a respectable amount of time attempting to wring sense out of the Accord. Neither of them had expected Rodimus to actually make much headway himself; the problem was, they hadn’t made any either. “But so is dealing with Overlord.”

“It is,” Rodimus agreed, contorting to put a Happy Weasels decal on his aft. “And I did  _ try _ to read it. I swear, that thing isn’t a document, though. It’s a torture device invented by the Cult of Mortilus.”

“Before this devolves any further,” Drift cut in, “what I’m hearing is that the Tyrest Accord is a huge document consisting of dense legalese that none of us are equipped to understand. Am I right?”

Ratchet nodded. “Despite our best efforts, even combined and with every legal dictionary on the ship.”

“We have legal dictionaries?”

“Ultra Magnus donated them to the library database,” Drift informed the captain.

“You’re  _ not _ suggesting we bring Ultra Magnus in on this!” Rodimus actually put down his sticker to turn on his friend.

“I’m not,” Drift said placidly, and Rodimus settled.

“Good. Because Prowl was very specific about not letting Ultra Magnus know about Overlord. He’d  _ freak _ anyway.”

“But he  _ would  _ be able to tell us definitively what facilities would be viable places to leave a prisoner of that caliber,” Ratchet said, not as willing to completely reject the idea. “If there’s anywhere we can reasonably transfer him, Ultra Magnus would know it.”

“No.”

“Roddy…”

“No. We can’t.  _ I _ can’t.”

“Then what  _ do  _ you suggest we do?” Taking out his frustration over the lack of a clear solution on the captain wasn’t helpful and Ratchet knew it, but, “It’s still dangerous to keep him onboard and unethical to kill him.” That was, Ratchet knew, still Drift’s preferred solution. It remained his opinion they should just kill him every time they talked, and nothing so far had been enough to change his mind. Ratchet was just happy he seemed content not to push for it.

“What are you afraid of, Rodimus?” Drift asked gently. “It’s not Prowl. We’re already determined to disobey him in this.” Rodimus glared at Drift, who held his hands up in surrender. “No one’s doing anything without your say-so, but give us the real reason.”

Rodimus glared some more. “Fine. Ultra Magnus is just starting to settle in. Relax, or something, and I don’t want to tell him I was this  _ stupid _ and make him hate me again.”

“Ah.” Drift lowered his hands. “Ratchet, could you give us a klik?”

“Sure.” Ratchet stood up and went to the door. “Just a klik?” He didn’t mind stepping out to give them a moment, but he didn’t want to linger if they weren’t going to continue. 

“I think so, yeah.”

“Alright. Come get me when you’re done.” Ratchet stepped out into the hall, feeling a pang of sympathy for Rodimus as he shut the door. That fear was probably tied to his recently aggravated insecurities in part, since everyone just loved Thunderclash, but in this Rodimus wasn’t just thinking of himself; he was thinking about Ultra Magnus, too.

Since he didn’t want to be seen loitering outside Rodimus’ office like he was waiting for a secret meeting to start (or resume), he moved a short distance away from the door, close enough to see but far enough away not to imply he was waiting for the captain. When mechs asked if there was anything they could help with, he told them he was waiting for Drift. It was true, and prompted sly smiles rather than suspicion.

It took longer than a klik, but no more than a breem or two. 

When Drift did come to get him, Ratchet was very glad to note he didn’t seem too upset, or show signs of fighting with Rodimus. He’d caused too many fights between them already, but it didn’t look like this had devolved that far.

Rodimus had abandoned the stickers in favor of intently drawing on one of the few remaining blank areas of his desk. Drift had moved his chair around to the other side of the desk from Ratchet, a show of support Ratchet was very used to by now. He didn’t even think it wrong for Drift to support Rodimus over him (anymore). At least he wasn’t standing behind their captain like a twitchy bodyguard!

“So, say Magnus could help us read the stupid Tyrest Accord,” Rodimus said without looking up. “Before I admit that we  _ might _ need to bring him in on this, do you think we can try asking him without telling him why? Frame it as a hypothetical?”

Ratchet considered. “I’m not against it in principle,” he said. “If there’s a way to frame it so that he can accurately advise us without fully disclosing the situation, that would probably be ideal, honestly.” The fewer people who knew a secret, the easier it was to keep. Already too many people knew about Overlord’s presence as it was. “Is it possible, though? Any of us asking extremely specific hypothetical questions about laws he knows we wouldn’t normally have an interest in would make him suspicious, wouldn’t it?”

“I could approach him,” Drift offered. “Ask for a refresher course, since I’ve obviously forgotten a lot of important points since the last time I was in a command position.”

“When he’s finally stopped constantly treating you like a Decepticon crime waiting to happen?” Rodimus narrowed his optics.

“I don’t mind Ultra Magnus, Rodimus. You’re more important than his opinion of me.” Drift gave them a self-deprecating shrug. “Besides, he may go the other way, and be so impressed by my dedication that his opinion improves.”

Personally, Ratchet thought the former was more likely than the latter. “I’d rather you not put yourself in that position,” but Drift at least had a somewhat plausible reason for asking the sort of questions they needed answers to, and Ratchet knew he was always going to be unreasonably self-sacrificing when it came to Rodimus. “Unfortunately, the only way I could bring up prisoner protocol without suspicion would be in the context of my ‘personal project’, and none of them are high-risk.”

And Ratchet  _ really _ didn’t want Magnus thinking he suspected they might be.

Rodimus’ optics narrowed.  _ He _ was suspicious of them still, but he’d effectively washed his hands of dealing with them, shoving them off onto Ratchet and okaying whatever Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, and Red Alert agreed to disagree about what was appropriate.

“I would much rather be the one to bear the brunt of Ultra Magnus’ dislike than them,” Drift said quietly. “They deserve the second chances they’re earning.”

“You deserve yours, too,” Ratchet said, unwilling to let that go without saying something. “But it’s your decision. What are you going to do if he starts asking questions anyway, though?”

“Lie,” Drift said with a cocky grin. 

“Wrong.” Rodimus scowled down at his desk, and with an intent look started tracing out a deep, angry line. “We’re doing this because  _ I _ decided you aren’t disposable. This whole exercise is useless if I let you take the fall for me now.” Red and yellow armor clamped down tightly, uncomfortable and defensive. “So yeah, go to Mags with the hypothetical first, but if he starts thinking it’s not so hypothetical, you bring him to me.”

“Roddy…”

“You know, that could turn out the other way, too,” Ratchet found himself encouraging. “Granted, he’ll acknowledge how stupid it was to bring Overlord on board, but for you to recognize and want to rectify that, relying on him for his specialized knowledge and as your second in command? He might actually respect that.”

“Eh.” Rodimus just shrugged noncommittally. Drift put his hand on the captain’s arm and got a quick, furtive smile in response. Rodimus took a long venting cycle and his armor loosened. “Well, we have a plan now, I guess. Any leads or hints on the whereabouts of the Circle? Just so we can pick a direction to go until we’ve got better info.”

“Aren’t you the one with the map?” Drift teased.

“Yes, but it’s not…” he trailed off, making a gesture like plucking something from the air. “Or else we’d be there already.”

“I know.” Drift thought for a moment. “The info I bought on Hedonia indicated that no  _ known _ faction operating in this area had the ability to attack the Circle and devastate them like they did, so I’ve been scanning some of the news broadcasts for similar things that can’t be blamed on known factions in the area. I’ve got a few things we can check out…”

Ratchet didn’t have anything useful to add to this discussion, but he didn’t interrupt or ask to be dismissed. The insight into Rodimus’ command style and thought process was interesting. Optimus had always been straightforward and decisive, only asking for or taking advice rarely. When he doubted himself, it was crippling, and his response was usually to withdraw. Prowl had always been rather secretive about how he made his decisions, and Ratchet had argued with him often (Prowl  _ never  _ had issues with confidence, which was a problem in and of itself). Bumblebee had always been sure about what was right, but seemed to fumble when it came to how to accomplish his ideals. Rodimus was brash and cocksure, but as he watched, Ratchet realized he depended on Drift (and Ultra Magnus, and, to a lesser extent, Ratchet himself) not just to bring him options, but also to help him decide. He wasn’t nearly so sure of himself and the rightness of his actions, but he genuinely wanted what was best for the mechs under his command. Obviously he didn’t always make good decisions (or else they wouldn’t be in this situation), but Ratchet didn’t think he could fault him for it any longer.

“Alright,” Rodimus finally decided, waving his stylus in the air. “We’ll head toward Zeutis to check out the attack there. There might be clues. But we’ll change course if we figure out what to do with Overlord before we get there. We’ll come back after,” Rodimus assured Drift, tapping him on the nose with the stylus, which prompted a smile. “Not giving up on the Circle. I guess,” he added more seriously, “I should talk to Mags too, about any hints the Galactic Council is snooping around. I do _ not _ want to run into those fraggers again.”

“I think we’d all be happier if we never saw them again,” Ratchet said with a shudder. “I suppose my priorities for now are my regular duties then, until we get some input from Ultra Magnus?”

“And your pet project,” Rodimus said. “And whatever you’re doing with First Aid to get him ready for your retirement. Rewind was going on about how surprised he was you were serious about that when he was hanging around recording earlier.”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious about it?” He wasn’t retiring from medicine entirely, just from medical command. 

Rodimus shrugged. “On Earth,” which was the last time Rodimus — or Hot Rod, then — and Ratchet had served at the same post, before the  _ Lost Light, _ “being CMO was everything to you. Everyone who’d met you before kind of thought, after you got your hands replaced, you’d just keep going.”

Ah. Ratchet supposed he couldn’t blame them for that, since his initial decision to retire had been a direct result of his failing abilities. “I did think about it after we left Delphi,” he admitted, flexing his fingers thoughtfully. “I’d already told First Aid I was looking for a successor, but he would have understood if I’d changed my mind due to new circumstances.”

“Only,” Drift gave him a questioning look, “you didn’t.”

“No. And while that decision was based on a number of different things, the biggest part of it comes down to something Rewind asked me: are you happy.” The question had surprised Ratchet during his interview, both because it wasn’t a question anyone generally asked anymore, and because it had been easy to answer. “I’m happy when I’m working, and I can retire as CMO without giving that up now. If anything, retiring from command will give me more time to spend on the other things I’m finding that make me happy.” He smiled at Drift. “Like interior decorating.”

“Good,” Rodimus said decisively, before Drift could respond. He leaned forward to draw an elaborate curlicue through several already extant lines, which not incidentally hid his expression from Ratchet. “I want you to be happy.”

Really? It sounded like it could have been an empty phrase, but his defensive posture and the look Drift was giving him were enough to convince Ratchet he meant it. “What about you two?” Ratchet asked. “Are you happy?”

“I am,” Drift volunteered first, with a glance at Rodimus. “And no offense, Ratchet, it’s not just you. It’s… It’s exorcisms, and book club, Ultra Magnus trusting me to buy supplies, even if I am about to risk provoking him… It’s that I have several good friends here, and you’re,” he turned to Rodimus, “the best of them. That makes me happy.”

Rodimus glanced up at Drift to smile, but quickly looked back down. 

“I want the crew to be happy,” Rodimus spoke up before the silence had quite managed to stretch out enough to be awkward. “If all of you are happy, I am.”

It was moments like this — moments like the one they’d shared when they’d gone to put Overlord in stasis — that Ratchet was reminded there was more to Rodimus than the petty, insecure, immature mech he came across as the majority of the time. “You’ve done a lot of things to help everyone on board be happy,” he said truthfully. “Like the lob ball stuff.”

“Yeah?” Rodimus looked up at Ratchet, and the medic could see him pulling on his cockiness like a new set of armor. Not, actually, a bad metaphor, Ratchet thought to himself, seeing it. “Thought you didn’t like lob ball? Want a new sticker?”

“No, thank you.” Ratchet was still embarrassed about how long he’d worn the last ones without realizing. “And I  _ don’t  _ like lob ball, but it’s been good for the crew. The number of injuries I’ve had to patch up from mechs with too much energy and too many bad habits getting into fights in their free time has gone down significantly, so who am I to complain?”

“But you will anyway,” Drift murmured.

“People would accuse me of being an imposter if I didn’t,” Ratchet pointed out. “If I don’t want Red Alert taking me apart to prove I’m made up of Ammonite spies, I need to complain about sportsball.”

“He scanned you too?” Rodimus asked. Drift nodded, even though the question hadn’t been directed at him.

“He did. Twice.” The first time had been understandable, but the second time had been a bit much, and Ratchet had refused to indulge his paranoia after that. “I think Rung added an extra appointment for him for the next few decacycles. It’s wonderful for the  _ Vis Vitalis  _ and her crew that he caught the infiltrator, but the whole incident has him rather worked up.”

“Hopefully Rung’ll take care of him.”

“He’s done some amazing work with him since we started this journey, given everything Red Alert’s had to deal with.” Like Overlord, which, remarkably, still hadn’t blown up in their faces post-exorcism. “Rung’s been invaluable to have among the crew. Though speaking of Rung,” Ratchet looked to Drift, “I know you and Ambulon have been trying to make things work by just giving each other space, but I’m not sure that’s enough anymore.”

Drift sighed and Rodimus gave him a sympathetic look; the captain didn’t seem surprised, and Ratchet figured he and Drift had talked about it, since this was the first time Ratchet was approaching any other members of the command staff. “Given that opening, you’re going to suggest more sessions with Rung.”

“I’m going to suggest some specifically focusing on that issue, if you haven’t been talking about it already.” Drift probably was, at least a little bit, but Ratchet was certain Ambulon wasn’t. “And I’m going to mandate a few for Ambulon. Whether joint sessions are a good idea or not I’ll leave up to Rung to determine.”

“I’ll make it captain’s orders, if you need me to.”

“If he argues with me on it, I just might take you up on that.” With any luck it wouldn’t be necessary, but Ratchet would take all the support he could get. 

“Great. We good then? Done?” Rodimus nodded, like he was telling them instead of asking. “Good. You two go enjoy the rest of your off-shifts.”

“Did you have any plans for yours?” Ratchet asked Drift as he got up. “Have fun wallpapering yourself with stickers,” he said to Rodimus. “Though you might want to leave some room for the new designs Rewind is working on.”

“Conveniently enough, Rewind was still filming when you found which solvent works best, so I can take some of these off when they’re printed.”

Drift laughed at Ratchet’s rather aggrieved look. “It’d be less funny if he was doing it just to get on your nerves,” he heckled, taking Ratchet’s hand. “I did want to talk to you privately, then maybe we could finish up  _ Gambler’s Fallacy _ together?”

“That sounds doable,” Ratchet said. “Your quarters this time, since they’re closer?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you two lovebirbs do anything I wouldn’t,” Rodimus called as the office door closed. Drift gave it an exasperated, fond look. 

“Isn’t saying ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’ the same as giving blanket permission, coming from him?”

“It’s a short list of don’ts, certainly.” Drift shook his head. “Come on.”

Officer quarters were just a short distance away from the offices and bridge, and the small number of people who did have legitimate business in that particular corridor were either busy or named Drift and Ratchet, so they didn’t run into anyone on the way.

Ratchet wasn’t at all surprised Drift had started a collage of images on the opposite wall, where he could see and meditate on the pictures. Nor was he surprised many of the images in the rather sparse space were memory stills of people with Great Swords, members of the Circle of Light. However…

“So why the snails?” Ratchet asked, not for the first time, as the door closed behind them. The new addition of a large format print of a pair of alien snails, one white and one a more subdued brown, was a strange and strangely fitting piece in Drift’s quarters. But the other additions Drift had picked up since Ratchet had been in here the first time were all various shades of red, like the foam pad on the berth. Brown and white snails seemed a bit of an incongruous choice.

“A reminder that everything will happen in its time,” Drift answered, once again with an entirely new explanation. Every answer to the “why snails” question he’d given was different. “Fast or slow, we’ll get there when we get there.”

“Hmm. I think I liked the one about logarithmic spirals better,” Ratchet teased, though this newest explanation sounded more like Drift. “You said you wanted to talk about something first?”

“I wanted to arrange a time to get my optics changed,” he said quietly, leading them both over to the berth and sat down.

“Oh!” Ratchet smiled. “You’ve decided that’s what you want?”

“Yeah.” Drift’s field was still a little hesitant, but he felt calm and sure in the decision. “Roddy and Ultra Magnus were both fine with it, surprisingly. Cyclonus’ issue was that I was making any sort of cosmetic change, but conceded that after three full frame rebuilds, it wasn’t like I’d be ‘defiling the frame Primus gave me’.” Drift quirked a smile. “Then we got into a debate over whether that even applied to me, since I was cold constructed. Perceptor… listened, I think. Then he asked if he could scan my Great Sword again. Whirl made a dirty joke. Then he told the rest of the crew, which itself was… interesting.” He bunted Ratchet’s shoulder. “I ended up talking about it with Thunderclash too.”

“I thought you might have, given the topic of conversation when I left the room. How did it go?”

“Well of course  _ he _ doesn’t think red optics equate to being a Decepticon.” Drift scooted closer and Ratchet wrapped his arm around him so he’d have room. “But he talked a lot about deciding to keep his own red optics when that trend started popping up. It was enlightening. Makes me wonder what I’d find if I asked Fortress Maximus about it.”

“You might wind up with questions about how you ended up with blue optics,” Ratchet warned him. “Our table at theme night kept coming back to the subject of your optics — everyone wanted to know if the rumors  _ someone  _ with only one optic had started circulating about you changing them were true — and that seemed to be his primary interest.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He sighed. “I hope syncing up our schedules to arrange for the surgery won’t cut into the other times we manage to sync schedules too much.”

“I doubt it’ll be an issue, though if you’re worried about it and were comfortable allowing him to perform the procedure instead of me, you could schedule it with First Aid. This isn’t me saying I won’t do it,” Ratchet assured him, “but he is more than qualified for something like this.”

“I could, couldn’t I.” Drift thought about that, probably comparing his busy — and getting busier, given how he had just volunteered to take legal lessons from Ultra Magnus — schedule with the medbay one. “Maybe I will.”

“Just let me, or both of us, know when you’ve decided.” Ratchet squeezed Drift closer to his side. “I think it’s great.”

Drift’s EM field vibrated happily. “It’ll feel good to be wearing the right color again.”

“And with it feeling like the right color to you, it’ll look like the right color to everyone else. Some faster than others, maybe,” Ratchet said, knowing there was no way he wasn’t sending Ambulon to Rung now, “but it’ll look right to me.”

Drift purred, and gently bit the nearest piece of Ratchet’s armor.

“Is that an ‘I’m just happy’ nibble, or an ‘I want to bite you’ nibble?” Ratchet asked, nuzzling back. 

“Is that an option right now?” Drift shivered. “After last time, I talked to Perceptor on how to improve your experience with the cuffs.” Ratchet knew that what sounded like a non sequitur was an offer to trade, since Drift was uncomfortable asking him to indulge his siphoning kink without it being part of a reciprocal agreement.

“Then it’s definitely an option,” Ratchet said, intrigued even though for him the trade was unnecessary.  _ “Gambler’s Fallacy  _ can wait.”

“It can,” Drift agreed, fingers trailing down Ratchet’s arm to his wrist. “Here still good, or do you want me to bite someplace else?”

“There’s still good.” The last bite had completely healed, and it was an easy location to patch afterward. Besides, it let Ratchet hold and look at Drift.

“Alright.” Drift scooted away, but didn’t let go. He nibbled on the armor over the energon lines he’d want access to, then gently put Ratchet’s hand on his knee so he could pull out his first aid kit.

Convenient that he didn’t have to go far to get it. Even if this was hardly the reason Ratchet tried to insist everyone keep a first aid kit on them at all times, he approved.

Drift selected three packaged, sterile cleaning cloths, then set the open kit aside for the moment. Quickly he wiped down his fangs and discarded the first, then turned his attention to cleaning Ratchet’s arm. He wiped down the flat planes slowly, deliberately, as though Ratchet’s plain, boxy armor was the most beautiful thing he’d seen. Ratchet focused on how much this obviously meant to Drift, rather than on how weird it was for him.

He wasn’t afraid, though. He had complete confidence in Drift, and let that trust bleed into his field. He was rewarded with a not-aroused whine of pleasure as Drift’s fans clicked on. 

“I like seeing you like this.”

“Hmm?” Drift made an inquisitive sound, and set aside the spent cleaning cloth. He continued to just stroke Ratchet’s arm, in no hurry.

“Relaxed. Happy.” Ratchet reached up with his free hand to pet Drift’s finials gently. Drift leaned into the caress. “I like being a part of that.”

“Well, we’ve covered how you’re the best already,” Drift teased. “And I like being here, with you, even without this.” He stroked the seam where Ratchet’s wrist armor would open.

“I know.” But the fact that he really would have been okay without it was part of why Ratchet was okay with it. There was no coercion going on here, whatever Ambulon’s worries. Voluntarily, Ratchet slid his armor aside. Taking the invitation, Drift opened the last cleaning cloth and started wiping down the fuel lines and myomer substructures within.

The solvent was an odd, cool counterpoint to Drift’s warming fingers. “Tell me what I should do to make this pleasurable for you,” he whispered.

“Just this is fine. I’ll get my overload with the cuffs another time,” Ratchet said with a wink. “I know what to expect this time, so I don’t need a distraction. That stroking you’re doing is nice.”

Surprise bloomed in Drift’s field, and his hands automatically stilled as he looked up. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“What?” Ratchet reached down and tapped the back of one hand. “Why’d you stop?”

“Sorry.” Embarrassment flickered in his field, and bent back to his task with a soft huff. The touches weren’t at all erotic, but they were still good. Comfortable. 

Ratchet relaxed, his arm completely unresisting in Drift’s hands. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Setting the now-useless cleaning cloth aside, Drift carefully pulled Ratchet’s hand up, bunting the fingers. Gently he slid his fangs into the large fuel line, giving a full-framed shudder of pleasure.

Ratchet’s systems, of course, immediately lit up with alerts that oh, by the way, your armor is compromised and you’re losing energon from a punctured line. As if he didn’t know. Ignoring the initial prick of pain, he dug through his processor for the software patch he’d used before to mute the unnecessary warnings. 

Next time, he’d have to remember to toggle that thing on  _ before _ they started.

Once his own systems weren’t distracting him, he could concentrate on Drift. He was supporting Ratchet’s arm, cradling it carefully and making soothing circles with his thumb. His optics had dimmed and darkened, like the edge of night, and he moaned softly. There were so many tiny little details — twitches and shifts that spoke of  _ pleasure _ — that Ratchet was seeing now that he’d missed before.

Ratchet marveled at Drift. He really was a beautiful mech, and Ratchet really did enjoy seeing him like this. He let his hand wander from white finials, cupping his head, then down. Drift bent lower, giving him access to the two already open ports on his spinal struts, but Ratchet ignored them. He didn’t want to plug in again; he wanted to watch Drift’s pleasure, feel his shudders with his own sensors.

He remembered “siphonist” being thrown around the gutters as an insult, and Ratchet had thought the practice — if it actually happened, which he hadn’t really believed it had — would be dirty. But the impressions he’d gotten from Drift’s memories hadn’t been dirty at all. Well, from a medical standpoint, it had certainly been unsanitary, but the memories hadn’t been  _ disgusting. _ And it was clear the intersection of affection and desperation had left a profound mark on Drift.

Petting wasn’t enough. Ratchet wanted to feel more. Careful not to dislodge Drift, he scooted and turned them both, so he was holding the other mech, arms wrapped securely around white plating to offer his still bleeding wrist. Drift simultaneously sagged against him and clung on tighter, the pitch of his engine settling into an even more satisfied hum than before.

It was remarkably comfortable, all things considered. Yes, there was a dull ache in his wrist where Drift’s teeth had punctured his lines, but he was still making those soothing, stroking motions on the surrounding plating, and now that Ratchet had him in his arms it was almost like any other time they’d cuddled. 

Now he could feel Drift’s every shiver, was aware of every one of his tiny moans. Ratchet kept his own strokes chaste, but couldn’t resist running his fingers over the smooth, white armor. They weren’t going to overload, but watching, feeling, his lover’s pleasure against his own frame was… similar, and Ratchet’s fans came on.

The software patch was still suppressing any low-fuel warnings when Drift eventually pulled back. Ratchet manually checked his levels and found that they were noticeably lower than when they’d started, but not dangerously so. Just enough to make him feel a bit lethargic as he moved his arms to let Drift reach for the first aid kit.

“I’ve got it,” Drift murmured. “You can lay down if you want; I’ll get you patched up.”

“I think I will,” Ratchet said, easing himself down fully onto the berth. His fans slowed and stopped as the deep pleasure in Drift’s field lightened, tempered by his focus on making sure Ratchet was okay. Cleaning the tiny wounds stung slightly, but Drift was quick to soothe it with layer of sealant and a patch. He petted the substructures gently, then encouraged the armor to close up over the wound, hiding it.

His optics traveled slowly up Ratchet’s frame, memorizing and admiring the angles, until he met Ratchet’s gaze and his smile widened. “You’re beautiful.”

“Says the most beautiful mech on the ship.” 

Drift snorted. “We’re not arguing about ‘traditional’ beauty until you’ve recharged a bit.” He tugged Ratchet’s wrist — the one concealing his networking cords, not the one he’d just bitten and patched — closer to the berth’s power outlet.

“Fair enough.” Ratchet let Drift plug him in, then tugged him back into his arms. Recharge sounded like a good idea. “Nap with me?”

“Sounds perfect.”

.

.

.

He hadn’t wanted to say anything. He’d hoped, after sending a memo to both Drift and Ambulon to make appointments with Rung, that his involvement would be over. Unfortunately, while Drift did follow through on the mandate, Ambulon didn’t. If anything, he was even more on edge than he had been before, despite not going overboard about the new healing bite. He’d noticed it, made it clear to Ratchet that he’d noticed it, then backed off when Ratchet said he was fine. But he tensed whenever Drift’s name was brought up, and First Aid told Ratchet he’d hid in the office when Drift had come in to discuss his optics.

Something needed to be done, now. Red optics would only make the problem worse.

So, after clearing it with Rung to make sure he had the time slot free, Ratchet ambushed Ambulon at the end of his next shift. First Aid hadn’t arrived yet, but he was due any klik and Ratchet wasn’t going to miss his chance.

“Sir,” Ambulon nodded politely. “Did you need something… looked at?”

“My arm is fine, thank you,” Ratchet said. “But I do need to talk to you about a somewhat related topic.”

Ambulon looked wary. 

“Walk with me?”

“I need to stay here until First Aid comes in for his—” 

Conveniently, First Aid chose that moment to walk in, optic band glowing sunnily at them both. “Good morning, Ratchet. You’re up early. Or,” his chipper voice became even more cheerful, “up late?”

Ambulon just looked disgruntled

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Ratchet said without any bite to the words, “I’m up early. Ambulon and I have something to discuss.”

“Alright. Any pass ons?” First Aid turned to Ambulon.

“Sunstreaker and Bob are in ISO,” Ambulon answered dutifully. “Bob’s got some sort of tank upset; I’m waiting on some tests to determine if it’s a minor techno pathogen or if it’s just something he managed to eat.”

First Aid nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Go enjoy your off shift.”

“Not likely.”

“I’m sorry I can’t just let it go,” Ratchet said, genuinely not wanting to cause Ambulon distress. “But ignoring the problem isn’t working anymore, and you’ve been ignoring my memo.”

“Because I don’t need a shrink to help me figure out what I’m feeling,” Ambulon muttered, but went ahead and followed Ratchet out into the hall. “He may have been pardoned when he switched sides, but who he was and what he did doesn’t go away.”

“I’m not saying you need to see Rung to figure out what you’re feeling, or to tell you what you’re feeling is wrong.” He had good reason for his fears, from his perspective. “What you need are better ways of coping with those feelings. He’s on the ship. That’s not changing, but it’s been getting progressively more stressful for you.” Despite Drift going out of his way to avoid Ambulon whenever possible.

“I’m  _ fine.” _

“You’re managing. That’s not the same as being fine.” And they had the time and resources now to do better than just ‘managing’. “You know he’s changing his optics.”

“Everyone knows he was thinking about it,” Ambulon answered, a little evasively.

“Well, it’s officially happening.” Not thinking about it wasn’t going to work once Drift was walking around looking, to Ambulon, even more like Deadlock. “You’re already struggling. Can you honestly tell me you’ll be alright?”

Ambulon glared sullenly at his hand where his paint had been picked off.

“That’s what I thought.” 

There wasn’t anything else to say after that. The silence on the rest of the walk to Rung’s office was somewhat tense, but Ambulon didn’t stop moving or try to change directions, so Ratchet wasn’t going to complain. 

Rung answered Ratchet’s ping immediately when they arrived at his door. “Good evening, Ratchet, Ambulon. Please come in.”

Ratchet let Ambulon go first, then came in behind him. He wasn’t going to be there the entire time, but there were a few things he needed to stay for. “We talked a little bit on the way over,” he said for Rung’s benefit. 

“Very good.” Rung smiled encouragingly at Ambulon. “Come sit down. Do you want anything to drink? I know you just came off of a shift in the medbay…”

“No.”

“Alright. Anything else you need to feel comfortable?”

“No.” Ambulon did go over to the chair and sit down. 

Rung followed, seemingly unbothered by the one word answers. “Then we should probably talk about the goals of this session, and future sessions.”

“Just so you know,” Ratchet began, talking to Ambulon even though the mech was deliberately not looking at any of them, “I’m not interested in seeing the two of you become friends, or even particularly enjoy each other’s company. All I want is for you to feel safe on this ship together, and for occasional physical proximity to be less stressful than it is now.”

“Thank you Ratchet. My goal,” Rung said, taking his own seat and folding both hands in his lap, “this cycle is to mediate. In subsequent sessions, it will be to help you, however you need it. Your safety and comfort are important to me.”

“And if I want to leave the ship to get away from him?” Ambulon snapped.

“I will help you choose where you wish to transfer to and help you get that transfer,” Rung said smoothly, before Ratchet could react. “Or even facilitate you choosing a place on our route that fits your needs, whether it’s a purely Cybertronian outpost or not.”

“I’d rather see you stay,” Ratchet added when Rung had finished, keeping his words simple and focused on his own feelings. Mentioning how much First Aid would want him to stay would be true, but also a guilt trip. “But you have the right to go, if that’s what you decide is best.”

“Is that what you’d like to discuss today?”

Ambulon, obviously taken aback by their easy acquiescence to that ultimatum, backtracked. “No.”

“Then let’s start with something else: do you believe it will be helpful or a hindrance for Ratchet to stay for this session, or come back for subsequent sessions?” Rung leaned forward. “We’ll be talking about things that potentially make you uncomfortable. If you feel the need for moral support, that’s perfectly fine. If you feel like you’d prefer privacy, that is also perfectly fine.”

“There’s no wrong answer as far as I’m concerned. I want to help whatever way I can, whether that means staying or leaving. What matters is what you need.” Ratchet held up a hand before Ambulon could interrupt. “And yes, that means I’m willing to talk about my involvement with Drift, to an extent, since that’s relevant. If you want.”

“But,” Rung added, “this isn’t about Ratchet; this is to help you. If you need to hear some things, because they help, that’s fine, but Ratchet and Drift aren’t the focus.”

“Yeah, sure.” Ambulon picked at a flake of paint on his knee, exposing a large patch of grey metal beneath. “I had nightmares about being bitten for  _ vorns, _ and you’re prancing around with that,” he gestured to the point of Ratchet’s wrist armor that didn’t lay flush because of the patch beneath. “You can’t expect me to like it.”

“No,” Ratchet said. “I can’t. And I don’t.”

“Would it help to know more about siphoning as a kink in general?” Rung offered. “I can’t speak to what either Drift or Ratchet get out of the activity, since that is private, but Drift isn’t the only mechanism that engages in it, or in other kinks most mechanisms think of as odd.”

Ambulon looked startled. “I know Decepticon officers asked for ‘kinky’ things when trading around sex.”

“So you’re familiar with these things as predatory,” Rung acknowledged. “But,” he pressed, “what do you know about them as mutual activities?”

“They  _ aren’t.” _

“They aren’t  _ always,” _ Ratchet rephrased. “But they can be.”

“Voyeurism, for example,” Rung picked up the thread. “A predatory version would involve spying on someone who is unaware they are being watched, or may be aware, but did not feel safe refusing to be watched. A mutual version might be, after talking about it and agreeing to try, one mech watching the other self service, or engaging with a third who is also aware of and had agreed to be watched.”

“Believe it or not, I’m aware I’m overreacting,” Ambulon hissed. “Deadlock isn’t even the worst I had to deal with. It was just a few, irrelevant cycles, where nothing  _ actually _ happened.”

“But he’s the one you’re having nightmares about,” Rung said gently. “And he’s the one you’re dealing with now. Your feelings, your experiences, are not trivial.”

“Being aware of your reactions doesn’t automatically mean you’re in control of them,” Ratchet said, remembering Drift’s reaction to Thunderclash. He’d been perfectly aware he was behaving badly, and that there was no real reason to do so, and yet hadn’t been able to stop himself completely. “But control is something you can work on. It’d be nice if that was easier to do, sometimes, but it’s still doable.”

“Would you like to tell us about those cycles?” Rung asked.

Ambulon’s gaze flickered to Ratchet, hesitating.

“Should I leave now?” Ratchet asked.

“Only if you object to hearing what your paramour is  _ really _ like.”

“Ambulon, answer the question with what  _ you _ want,” Rung admonished softly.

“I  _ want _ Ratchet to hear this,” Ambulon hissed. “But…” He deflated a little, looking back at Ratchet.

“I’ll stay to hear it,” Ratchet said, mentally steeling himself for whatever unpleasantness lay ahead. Deadlock hadn’t been a good mech, and Ratchet wasn’t lying to himself about that, but he also didn’t know Deadlock very well. Not in detail. “Go ahead.”

Ambulon stood to go look out the window. “I knew about Megatron’s favorite warrior at the time, but it wasn’t until Glit told me to stay away from him that I put a face to the name…” 

Ratchet and Rung both stayed quiet while the whole story came out. A few cycles. A few cycles of feeling constantly  _ hunted _ by someone who should have been on his own side. The fear when Deadlock had called Flatline from across the fueling depot, and the shame of realizing how relieved he was it hadn’t been him, Ambulon, Deadlock had been calling to. The rechargeless night, watching Glit bandage up the bite wound Deadlock had left on Flatline, how his fellow medic had looked and sounded  _ drained _ after the experience.

The nightmares.

Trying to avoid Deadlock, and failing. Listening to the mechs brag to each other while they recovered, then finally being cornered.

As terrified as Ambulon had been, as well as he conveyed the feeling of being  _ hunted, _ he also seemed aware he wasn’t precisely a reliable narrator. He drew a line between what Deadlock had done and how he’d perceived what he’d done. Knowing that difference, and knowing there was a difference between then and now, but still being worried for Ratchet and First Aid and himself based on those perceptions seemed (to Ratchet, maybe Rung was picking up something else) to be his biggest source of stress.

A bit like Drift, wanting to be better than he felt he was. Ratchet didn’t say so, though. He was still too busy processing what he’d just heard. Even if some of what Ambulon had said was skewed by his own biases, it was still pretty damning. Knowing that Deadlock had behaved that way among his own ranks, in their downtime, was somehow worse than knowing how many he’d killed in battle. 

The difference for him was being more able to separate Deadlock from Drift; not by pretending he hadn’t done those things, but by believing he no longer would.

“That’s… a lot to deal with,” Ratchet said, at a loss for what to say. 

Ambulon sent Ratchet a sullen, vindicated look.

“Indeed,” Rung agreed. “I also think it’s enough spark-searching for the moment. Let’s schedule your next appointment, and then I’ll let you go enjoy the rest of your downtime.”

“Do you want me to come again, or do the next one without me?”

“Maybe? I don’t know.”

“How about we do the next one without Ratchet here,” Rung suggested, “and then you tell me which of the two you prefer, and if it’s easier to talk one way or the other.”

Ambulon shifted uncomfortably. “Sure.”

“I’ll leave you to work out a time then,” Ratchet said, and stood. “Thank you, for sharing what you did.”

Ambulon shrugged, and Ratchet noticed the cloud of paint flakes on the floor surrounding where he’d been standing.

“Remember, my door is always open if you need to talk,” Rung said, nodding farewell.

“I will,” Ratchet said as he left. Didn’t think he’d be needing to anytime soon, but, well… If he did, it’d be pretty hypocritical not to make an appointment after dragging Ambulon in like that. He’d try spending a little time alone with his thoughts first though. Ambulon’s story didn’t make him suddenly want to find Drift and break up with him, but it was going to linger in his processor, and he needed to deal with that.

Too bad Swerve’s wasn’t open right now.

.

.

.


	24. Chapter 24

Ratchet had thought that the prisoners who hadn’t lucked their way into continuing medbay shifts would end up doing rivet duty with a supervisor, but it seemed Ultra Magnus preferred to reserve that unpleasant task for troublemakers. And since he had been restricted from throwing crewmembers in the brig for minor offenses since Temptoria, by now the  _ Lost Light’s _ rivets had rivets. Instead, when Ratchet had pinged in his availability and willingness to oversee a prisoner work shift, he found himself watching three of them mopping up after some mess Whirl had left in one of the hallways.

Whatever the substance all over the floors was, it didn’t come up easily. At least they knew it wasn’t toxic, though it still worried Ratchet a bit that Brainstorm had left muttering about “possibilities” after confirming that fact.

It was easier work to supervise than a helper in the medbay, but also less interesting. There, he had at least had something to do besides stand around and make sure no one tried to run off down the hall or start a sword fight with their mops (a thing Ratchet wouldn’t have even considered if it weren’t for the “sword fight” Swerve and Tailgate had engaged in not two cycles ago; fortunately the only casualties had been a bar stool and a bucket of solvent). Ratchet kept checking his chronometer, waiting for the shift to end. 

He ended up thinking about Ambulon’s story again. Ratchet knew Ambulon had scheduled — and actually gone — to his next appointment with Rung, but he hadn’t been invited back to participate, which served Ratchet just fine. This group didn’t seem to engage in the threat-protection based interfacing economy Ambulon had described. Not among each other, anyway. There had been attempts (soundly refused and discouraged until they’d stopped altogether) to trade sex for favors from Ratchet, Fort Max, and, hilariously, Ultra Magnus and Red Alert, but that was it. Maybe because these mechs — the cooperative bunch — were all grunts, not officers, and Fort Max had been so careful to squash the possibilities of fighting and bullying.

Ratchet had known Drift—  _ Deadlock _ had bullied the medics at Ambulon’s MASH unit into accommodating his fuel kink, and had been violent in protecting people he viewed as “his”, but it was harder to just pack away the full story. The details about how  _ unwanted  _ his attention had been among the Decepticon medics, yet how  _ resigned  _ they’d been to it as an inevitability… It illuminated an ugly part of Drift’s past, and Ratchet felt torn between wanting to talk to him about it and feeling such a conversation would be both unwelcome and somewhat pointless. Drift acknowledged that his actions then had been wrong, had apologized for them, and was taking every action now to avoid ever repeating those mistakes, so what else could anyone ask of him? 

Realistically nothing, but that didn’t change that Ratchet felt there should be  _ something. _

Just like he’d told Ambulon, being aware of his feelings and knowing they were irrational didn’t get rid of them. So far he’d stopped himself from acting on them, though. Part of that was that Drift was the same as ever: attentive, careful, caring. Somewhat mischievous. Happy enough to see Ratchet that Ratchet just shoved those thoughts and feelings aside to enjoy their time together. It wasn’t his confrontation to have, anyway; it was Ambulon’s, if Rung ever arranged it. It was only moments like this, when he was contemplating the gaggle of Decepticons who seemed interested in trading favors, earning better lives, and maybe,  _ maybe, _ leaving the war behind, that he really thought about it. Each of them would have something like it in their past, either as the predator, like Deadlock, or the victim, like Ambulon. It was a lot of baggage.

“Sir?” Silverstorm calling him broke Ratchet out of his thoughts. “I, uh, don’t think we’re going to finish by the end of the shift.”

Ratchet looked at his chronometer again, then at how much hallway they still had to go. “Unless the rest is somehow a lot less stubborn than this, I think you’re right.” He sighed and pinged Ultra Magnus to let him know he’d need to send someone else to finish the cleanup. Extending the prisoners’ work shift wasn’t an option; he didn’t have time to stay and supervise, and overworking them wouldn’t be fair. “Don’t worry about it. Just finish what you can. I’m not going to punish anyone,” except maybe Whirl, “for any mess that’s left.”

He didn’t see anyone’s frames overtly relax the way he had the first time he’d stated he wouldn’t punish anyone for not being able to finish a task during their work shifts, and considered it a good sign. It seemed they were getting used being treated fairly. And they didn’t take permission not to finish as an excuse to get lazy; by the time Ratchet called a halt, they’d managed to clear a respectable section of the hallway, including a narrow walkway down the center of the splattered area so others could use the space. 

After a brief detour to rinse off — they didn’t bother returning the cleaning equipment, just left it for the next unlucky group — Ratchet led the way back to the quarters-turned-cells. They weren’t all crammed into a single room anymore, and Ratchet was able to simply open the door to let Silverstorm and Ragefire inside without warning any roommates to step back first. Dirtcloud was still in the first room that had been converted, but was now only sharing it with Blueray and Nightraider, who both complied with the precautions without incident.

It was a much nicer arrangement than the brig cells!

Though, now that they’d had a cycle or two to catch up on missed or interrupted recharge, Ratchet had noticed the flavor of their requests shift from extra fuel and personal effects to entertainment items and supervised time outside their room-cells. They didn’t have each other to entertain themselves with anymore. 

Ratchet had no problem giving them datapads loaded up with library books, but they’d all rejected watching any of the short films Rewind had made as “Autobot drivel” (though Blueray had accepted an unedited recording of the Team Mustache vs Happy Weasels game). Too bad all of the writings from the Decepticon University weren’t part of the library, though Ratchet could just imagine what Red Alert and Ultra Magnus would have to say about it being one, in the library at all, and two, offered to Decepticon prisoners to read.

Maybe he really should say something about the sections of the Code pertaining to subversion, sedition and propaganda. He’d gone ahead and looked them up around banging his head against the articles on prisoner detainment and transfer, and there was an argument to be made for relaxing some of the restrictions in a post-war environment — or, at the very least, for being less rigid about what was defined as propaganda and therefore banned for being subversive or seditious. Pre-war Decepticon writings identified as propaganda in their time could be considered historical artifacts now, and he could make the argument for preserving them on that basis. Not all of the ones Ratchet had read were what he’d call inflammatory. 

It was worth a try.

Ratchet wondered if he should talk to Drift about it, or if he’d have more success with Ultra Magnus if he’d be able to say he  _ hadn’t _ talked to Drift about it. 

Tabling the thought for now, Ratchet made his way to Swerve’s, where he was due to meet Drift before the next book club meeting in a couple of breems. He had just enough time for a small drink while he refreshed himself with the ~~soft core porn~~ “romance” of  _ Gambler’s Fallacy. _

Knowing Ratchet wouldn’t be hanging around for long (one of the book club schedule posters was posted right next to the bar), Swerve gestured Ratchet to an empty stool at the bar and delivered a Solar Sunstreaker. Amusingly, the Ratchet’s Rusty Wrench had made it onto the menu, along with the captain’s Cosmic Stardust and three others from Design Your Own Drink Night Ratchet didn’t recognize. 

“I’ll be intrigued if that winds up being part of my legacy, since I had nothing to do with it.”

“Better than that ‘drink’ — and I use the term lightly — you really  _ did _ come up with,” Swerve said with amusement. “Do you need a drink for your boytoy?”

“My ‘boytoy’,” Ratchet said, “won’t have time to finish anything if he doesn’t show up soon.” He’d half-expected Drift to already be here, but he very obviously wasn’t. It wasn’t like him to be late.

Ratchet was staring at the syrupy dregs of his Solar Sunstreaker several kliks later when Drift finally pinged him.  _ “Sorry! I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it to book club this time.” _

_ “Why not? Did something happen?” _

_ “Ultra Magnus,” _ Drift answered, voice heavy with exasperation and resignation. 

_ “Ah.”  _ Did that mean…  _ “Command stuff, or your own private book club?” _

_ “Private, un-fun book club.” _ Drift laughed.  _ “I’d much rather be discussing Smokescreen’s tastes in porn.” _

_ “I’d rather have you there, too.”  _ If it meant potentially getting somewhere with the Tyrest Accord though, it was a worthy sacrifice.  _ “I’ll give you the highlights later.” _

_ “Thanks. You mind giving something to Rung for me?” _

_ “I can do that, sure.”  _ He’d done it before, albeit without including Drift’s name.  _ “What is it?” _

_ “Just some thoughts, since I can’t be there,” _ Drift answered wistfully, then pinged Ratchet a text file.

_ “Just notes again, or did you find time to compose a paper?”  _ Ratchet guessed without bothering to open it.

_ “It’s only five pages!” _

_ “Uh huh. Right. Five more pages than anyone else wrote,”  _ Ratchet chuckled.  _ “Are they just for Rung, or can we all discuss them?” _

_ “If you want to discuss them, you can,” _ Drift offered shyly.

_ “Alright. I’ll let you know if it sparks any interesting conversations.” _

_ “Than— oops.” _ Drift laughed again.  _ “I’m in trouble for ‘being distracted’. Gotta go.” _

Ratchet laughed too as the line went dead. “Good thing I didn’t order anything for him,” he said as he passed his empty glass to Swerve. “He’s been Magnus’d.”

“Poor guy. Ultra Magnus is alright, though.” Swerve shrugged. “Another, or heading out?”

“Heading out, but I’ll probably be back.” Probably. Ratchet smiled and waved over his shoulder. “See you later.”

The ship felt cheerful and bustling as Ratchet walked through the halls. The  _ good _ kind of busy. A few mechs snickered about Whirl’s prank, but most just greeted Ratchet and asked him about book club. He told anyone who was interested to come by at the end of today’s meeting to pick up the next book, whatever that wound up being.

The library looked good. Definitely more finished than the last time he’d been here. The overall colors — of the walls, chairs, and bookshelves — hadn’t changed, but one wall had been painted in abstract brushstrokes of magenta, orange, and white, with flecks of the wall’s base turquoise showing through here and there. Bean bag chairs in the same colors were piled out of the way, easy to grab and spread out across the floor for people to use to talk and read. A pair of empty spools for ships’ cabling had been brought in to use as tables, though Ratchet wasn’t sure if they were going to be sanded down and painted or left as they were. It all looked really nice. Rung and Smokescreen had done good work with their space.

He wasn’t the first one to arrive this time. Smokescreen and Cyclonus were already there, setting out the snacks and engex, while Chromedome perched on a stool over next to the terminal, flipping through a datapad.

“No Tailgate or Rewind?” Ratchet asked, surprised not to see the larger mechs’ minibot shadows.

“Rewind’s busy editing a thing,” Chromedome said without looking up from his ‘pad. 

“The,” Cyclonus’ expression twisted slightly in distaste, “Happy Weasels are doing a poster signing. Tailgate decided he’d prefer to attend that.”

“That does sound more his speed, doesn’t it?”

“And what about your missing trailer? Where’s Drift?” 

Ratchet looked over at Smokescreen to find him grinning at him. “Whatever you’re imagining, stop. He’s not going to be able to make it, and it has nothing to do with me.”

“Thought you two were exclusive,” Smokescreen heckled.

Cyclonus let out a low, barely there, rumble, and Ratchet wasn’t sure if he was growling at Smokescreen or the idea that Drift could be straying.

“Again — stop imagining things,” Ratchet said. “He’s just busy with his own less interesting version of book club with Ultra Magnus and the Tyrest Accord.”

“Pfft,” Smokescreen laughed. “Better him than me, I say.”

“I’ve heard of the Tyrest Accord,” Cyclonus said thoughtfully; he’d probably heard about it while not-listening to Tailgate chattering about his own lessons in the Autobot Code, “but am uncertain what its purpose is.”

“What purpose does any code of law serve? The Accord provides rules for dealing with issues related to the control of Cybertronian technology, predominantly. It includes some other stuff and was appended to the Autobot Code back when Tyrest was declared Chief Justice.” 

“For most of us, it really just boils down to ‘don’t sell guns to aliens’.” Smokescreen shrugged. “Guess the third in command needs a more specific understanding.”

“If he wants to be able to make calls that Ultra Magnus won’t question later, then specifics matter.” Like, for instance, what facilities were authorized to hold the technology contained in a Phase Sixer. Not that anyone here knew about— correction;  _ Rung  _ knew about it. Ratchet nodded to him as the psychiatrist came in. “Good to see you. Drift sends his apologies for missing the meeting.”

Rung frowned slightly. “I hope we didn’t drive him off last meeting.”

“Not at all. He’ll be here for the next one, and in the meantime, sent this,” Ratchet pinged the text file Drift had given him out over a general frequency, “to contribute to the discussion.”

Behind his glasses, Rung’s optics widened, then he laughed. A moment later, Smokescreen cursed. “He’s making us all look bad,” he whined.

“He’s enjoying himself.” Ratchet selected an orange beanbag for himself and got settled. “Not at your expense. He just really likes critical reading and analysis.”

“I believe I will save reading this in full until after I’ve made my own points about the book,” Cyclonus said, confirming that he’d gotten a copy as well. After looking over the available bean bag chairs, he selected a turquoise one and lowered himself into it almost gingerly, obviously suspicious of the strangely squishy furniture. Smokescreen, meanwhile, flopped into a magenta one, while Rung filled a plate with this cycle’s selection of treats (if Skids was still doing any baking, it wasn’t at a great enough volume to sell the results at Swerve’s anymore) and set it aside before lowering himself into a white chair primly.

“Shall we get started?”

“Aren’t we still waiting on First Aid?”

Rung and Smokescreen looked at each other. “I thought he’d be with Whirl,” Smokescreen said. “Happy Weasels’ poster signing.”

“We can wait a few extra kliks if you’d prefer.”

“No, we can start. I just hadn’t heard what his plans were.” Sportsball was definitely a bigger draw for some people, and that was fine. Ratchet glanced over at Chromedome, who was still ignoring them in favor of whatever he was reading. “What about you?”

“I’m curating the grab-and-go things,” he waved at the shelf of datapads, “since they aren’t actually supposed to leave the room. Helping with the terminal directory. And, you know, making sure mechs don’t throw the chairs around and stuff.”

“Both Smokescreen and I have found ourselves far too busy to keep the library staffed as much as we want,” Rung clarified. “So Chromedome has been nice enough to be our primary librarian.” 

“I’m not as much of a nerd as some people, but I like reading, so it wor—”

“I’m here!” First Aid interrupted, throwing the door open (somehow, it being a sliding door) and almost falling into the room. “Sorry I’m late!”

“Hey! Poster signing over already?” Smokescreen asked.

Ratchet snorted. “I doubt it.”

“No.” First Aid waved to Chromedome, who waved back as he returned to his own book, then came over to pick out a bean bag chair. He ended up with a second magenta one. “I just got mine signed quickly so I could get here. It’s a  _ fantastic _ book!”

“We’re happy to have you here to talk about it,” Rung said, leaning forward to look around the circle. “Who else thought it was a good book?”

“Me!” Smokescreen raised his hand immediately.

“Of course you do, you’re the one who picked this drivel.” Ratchet let Smokescreen pout for a nanoklik, then relented. “Drivel that I wound up enjoying, more or less.”

“Ha!”

“I felt it was very descriptive,” Cyclonus put in solemnly, finally leaning back in his bean bag chair.

“Medically accurate?” Smokescreen smirked, enthusiastically munching on a handful of cheap tin crunchies they must have bought at Hedonia. 

“Perhaps,” Cyclonus responded before Ratchet could snark back. “But those were not the descriptions I enjoyed. It was how the author dealt with transporting the reader to the various places in the story. It was very vivid.”

“The author did put a lot of effort into setting the scene,” Rung agreed. “I myself have never been to any of the places in the story, but I could see them clearly as I was reading.”

“So could I.” Ratchet hadn’t been to any of the specific locations in the story either, but the descriptions had been very accurate to what he remembered of similar places. As accurate, he had to grudgingly admit, as the descriptions of physical acts had been.

“I liked the  _ story _ best,” First Aid cooed, optic band sparkling. “Flutter and Zodiac are just  _ meant _ for each other. It was so mean of that gangster to try and kill Zodiac, but that  _ rescue _ at the end!”

“Flutter’s awesome,” Smokescreen preened. “Not exactly a helpless love interest.”

“Suffice it to say, this genre has a wide appeal, for multiple reasons,” Rung prodded gently.

“Right? And you said it was a silly choice,” Smokescreen said triumphantly.

“I still don’t think the genre as a whole is ever going to be a favorite of mine,” Ratchet said, “but having read this, I can see how it would be for others. Drift liked the emotional development too, First Aid. He felt the author took care in making sure they complemented each other, and that their relationship enhanced them both rather than changing who they were.”

“I see that,” Rung said. “He spent some time discussing romantic gestures, their purpose in a relationship, and the importance of tailoring them to the relationship in question. He seems impressed Flutter and Zodiac didn’t follow the steps of most courtships in the media, allowing them to be themselves.”

First Aid looked confused, and belatedly Ratchet pinged his fellow medic Drift’s self-imposed homework assignment.

“Wow! He really put a lot of thought into this, didn’t he?” First Aid’s visor flickered with interest. “Ohhh, I hadn’t even thought of that! But he’s totally right, the scene in the restaurant has a lot of subtext. I mean, I got the obvious symbolism of them talking about Batholith and Perihelion’s relationship, but the smaller details in their fuel choices went over my head.”

“You know, I kind of like the way he notices colors in everything,” Smokescreen said, flipping through his copy of the book. “I must’ve read this hundreds of times and never thought about any of the characters’ paint schemes beyond what they physically looked like.”

“He may be drawing conclusions the author never intended to imply, however,” Cyclonus said.

“That’s possible,” Rung acknowledged. “Drift has reason to be especially observant of colors, and to be a little esoteric about their meanings.” That was met with chuckles around the circle. Everyone knew Drift was a Spectralist, and showing even a drop of interest could get someone stuck in a lengthy conversation as to what that meant. “Even if he’s careful not to apply those meanings to things they aren’t meant to apply to, just being more sensitive to color could lead him to put more weight on those choices. However,” Rung smiled, “showing thought about what one is reading can hardly be a bad thing.”

“No, it is not. I bring it up merely to draw attention to the fact that we have our own biases as readers. In my case,” Cyclonus frowned (or gave the impression of frowning harder than his normal dour expression), “I found some of the passages detailing Flutter and Zodiac’s intimate activities to be excessive and lengthy.”

“They really aren’t, though,” Smokescreen got in right before First Aid’s “I’ve read  _ lots  _ of stories where the eroticism was  _ much  _ more prevalent. It’s just part of the genre.”

“From your perspectives, yes. But the genre has, in fact, shifted over time. Scenes I imagine you find merely romantic would have bordered on scandalous in the novels of my time.”

“Also a very good point,” Rung said. “The idea of romance is not static. Nor is any sort of romantic ideal. While I don’t personally carry one, did anyone else think it strange there was only one character with a blaster in the entire book: Diablic, the boss’ enforcer?”

“I’d just assumed that was a byproduct of the era it was set in,” Ratchet shrugged. “Of course, my attention was on looking for  _ other  _ incongruous details.”

“Which you didn’t find.”

“Yes, fine! Which I didn’t find. If anyone were to read this book as an instructional manual for How To Get Fragged, they wouldn’t be doing themselves any harm!”

“It  _ is _ a product of the era,” Rung interrupted the brewing argument. Daintily, he picked out a rust stick from his plate, but he didn’t start eating it right away; instead he used it as a gesturing tool. “But it still struck me as incongruous. I found myself asking myself things like ‘why doesn’t Flutter just shoot him?’ during the scene where he was cornered by that thug before reminding myself that he  _ couldn’t.” _

“I wondered that, too,” First Aid said, recovering from the giggles he’d fallen into at Ratchet’s outburst. “He isn’t characterized as helpless anywhere in the story, and then there he was, not doing anything when it should have been so easy to escape! Only, it wasn’t.”

“I did not have such thoughts.”

“You still had civilians,” Smokescreen shot back. “Though, for me, that idea of civilian life was, I don’t know, one of the reasons I held onto it.”

Rung’s subtle, knowing smile made a light go off in Ratchet’s processor. What Smokescreen had just said was more true than he might want them to realize. It was easy to wave off holding onto porn; it was less easy, and much more vulnerable, to admit you’d held onto something out of nostalgia for a time and place — and  _ Gambler’s Fallacy  _ was set in Praxus.

“It makes me wonder what people will think about things we write,” First Aid put in, rather innocently. “I mean, what would a future-us society think about us writing stories or whatever where there aren’t any civilians?”

“It’s not like we had time to write stuff,” Smokescreen shrugged. “Film, though…”

“There might be more writing out there than you think,” Ratchet said, knowing he needed to be careful about what he said. “I know plenty of mechs kept journals during the war, especially earlier on,” before they’d become so worn down by and enured to the violence that journaling no longer worked as a coping mechanism. “And short stories would pop up occasionally on the medical servers, true stories turned fiction to protect identities. The only difference between writing and film is that film had better distribution throughout the war.”

“I remember some of those!” First Aid rocked forward enthusiastically. “I didn’t really think of them as stories though, more like case studies.”

“They walked that line,” Ratchet nodded, “but I think a lot of that was down to the individual authors. I was stationed at a base for several vorns with a mech named Hazard who would send out a group memo every decacycle with a… I guess you could call it a ‘story of the week’. Some of them were obviously things that had happened that decacycle, but others were purely fictional, and if any of us had thought to collect and hold onto them, they’d have made a hefty anthology.”

Rung took off his glasses and cleaned them briefly with a cloth, letting Ratchet see his optics glow knowingly. 

“I don’t believe many would be nostalgic for this era of war and destruction,” Cyclonus said before Rung could ask if Ratchet  _ happened _ to have such a collection.

“The value doesn’t have to be in nostalgia,” Ratchet argued, taking the opportunity to say, “There are things we can learn from looking back at writings from any given era. Take this,” he said, waving his copy of  _ Gambler’s Fallacy.  _ “We’re reading this now and getting something meaningful from it, even though it wouldn’t have been ‘acceptable literature’ back in your time.”

“Say that again, so I can record it,” Smokescreen laughed. “That’s high praise for something you were calling drivel earlier.”

“It is drivel. That doesn’t mean it can’t be  _ meaningful  _ drivel. It depends, like Cyclonus said, on the reader’s biases and experiences.”

“And on what they go into reading a particular piece hoping to gain from it?” Rung suggested, not fooling Ratchet for a nanoklik even with his glasses back in place. 

“Fact checking that the interfacing is  _ medically accurate,” _ First Aid giggled.

“In this case,” Ratchet said with a resigned sigh. It was his own fault for making such a big deal of that particular subject. “But with regard to stories about war and destruction, wouldn’t reading such things help others understand our experiences? Maybe even see the places where we made mistakes so they don’t repeat them?” He held up his hands. “But maybe that’s just my bias. Reading for entertainment is all well and good, but I tend to prefer a more educational approach.”

“Is that a segue into presenting your book choice to the group?” Rung finally ate that rust stick he was holding.

“My book choice?” Looking around the group, Ratchet supposed it was his turn. Unfortunately, all the books he was currently thinking of were classified as banned. “I didn’t have a specific book in mind, no. Let’s just go back to talking about  _ Gambler’s Fallacy,  _ and I’ll pick something by the end of the meeting.” He hadn’t meant to derail the conversation like that, or come so close to broaching the topic of censorship over a novel that was basically porn.

“Alright,” Rung acquiesced easily. “Let’s talk about some things we didn’t like about it — other,” he added gently, “than the explicitness of its content. There’s value in that discussion, of course, and I’d like to have it, but I want to hear about some of the other flaws first.”

Smokescreen, perhaps obviously, refused to acknowledge there was anything wrong with the book, and only grudgingly admitted he would have liked some of the antagonists to be better fleshed out. First Aid hadn’t liked that no one considered getting the enforcers involved. Not that it was really an option, but there should have been a discussion saying why it wasn’t viable. Everyone took turns making suggestions in response to each other’s complaints, eventually moving on to talking about what predictions they’d had as they were reading and which had come to pass. First Aid’s proved to be the most accurate, which he attributed to his familiarity with the genre.

Ratchet withdrew from the conversation after a while as they talked about explicit material and its appropriateness in general, taking advantage of Chromedome surprising everyone by chiming in to grab a drink and consider what they should all read for the next meeting. He couldn’t very well suggest Towards Peace! Though the student notes accompanying the copies from the University archives he’d pulled from the Decepticon ship had been an enlightening read. Too bad other texts didn’t come with commentary. He swallowed a chuckle. If Drift hadn’t already gone to Ultra Magnus about the Tyrest Accord, maybe he could have set the book club on the confounded thing to try and get answers out of it.

The fact was, Ratchet just hadn’t bothered saving anything, or at least nothing that wasn’t technically above most of the book club’s medical knowledge. All the books he could suggest were serious medical texts, and only First Aid would enjoy reading something like that. They could finally access the knowledge, but it was still locked out of reach by lack of education in the subject…

Ratchet yanked that thought out of his queue to look at it. It looked a lot like one of Gleam’s arguments. It wasn’t a bad thought, but it reminded him that Ratchet had donated more than just his own medical library to Rung’s public one, and one of Gleam’s passions had been basic medicine for the laymech. There had to be a textbook for that. There  _ had _ been a textbook for that.

“Excuse me for a klik,” Ratchet said as he stood to use the terminal. They were back to debating the meanings and lack thereof of various colors in the book, with Smokescreen insisting that certain things couldn’t be symbolic because those were the colors they’d been in reality, while First Aid pointed out that just meant the author of this book hadn’t meant the symbolism, not that it wasn’t there. 

Ratchet had never actually  _ seen _ the book he knew must exist in that pile of stolen textbooks; he just hoped he knew enough details to be able to find it. There had been references to it in other articles — or had they been in margin notes? — that he couldn’t remember perfectly, but maybe the right combination of keywords would work.  _ Medicine, basics, overview, first aid, laymech…  _ After a few different attempts, and modifying his search to look in the text of the files, rather than in the titles, abstracts, or tags, he found it:  _ Your Guide to Quick Fixes (and How to Tell if Something is Serious).  _

It hadn’t actually been written by Gleam. Ratchet had been half afraid it had been, which might have undermined him later when he tried getting Ultra Magnus to lift the ban on Decepticon writings. While the author’s name might still have been a pseud for Gleam or another Decepticon, this way Ratchet could truthfully claim ignorance of that, if anyone suggested it. There was no way to prove a Decepticon connection, except that they’d used this text in their classes, but they’d used a lot of things they hadn’t written. 

He downloaded the book himself, then noted the library’s directory code for it so he could give it to the others before returning to the circle. Everyone had apparently progressed to nostalgic recountings of their own experiences of past-Cybertron.

Rung looked up with a smile. “Find what you needed?”

“I did,” Ratchet said, relaxing back into his beanbag. They really had been a great idea. “I’ll share it when it’s time to announce the new book.”

The other three looked at each other (Chromedome just continued snacking, having not read the book). “I think we’re done, honestly.”

“Lay it on us,” Smokescreen challenged.

“Alright then. In the interest of educational reading, I’ve selected…” He turned his datapad around.  _ “Cybercrosis and Other Causes of Incremental Shutdown: Clinical Diagnoses and Palliative Care Options.” _

“Uhhh…” Smokescreen effectively verbalized everyone’s blank stare. Even First Aid was looking at Ratchet with mild horror (possibly because he was familiar with that text and just how much of a dry, technical slog it was). “Are we allowed to reject book choices? Can that be a thing? Because that sounds horrible.”

“Pfft.” Ratchet flipped to the next screen on his datapad, revealing his actual selection. “I wouldn’t really do that to you. This is what I want everyone to read.”

“Is that… Is that a medical text?” First Aid’s horror melted away into relief, which blossomed into curiosity. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It sounds like a repair manual,” Smokescreen complained to cover his own relief.

“Technically it is — a repair manual for repairing mechs.” Ratchet pinged them all the directory code. “It was written for mechs who aren’t members of a medical profession, so you should find it much more approachable, and maybe even useful.”

“I’d like to point out that we’ve all  _ had _ the military-mandated first aid training,” Smokescreen complained more, even as he minimized  _ Gambler’s Fallacy _ on his own datapad and opened a new tab. “You really don’t have to foist a refresher course on us.”

“Perhaps you should look at it as a piece of literature, and examine themes beyond the obvious,” Rung suggested with a teasing lilt.

“How’s this for a theme? Ratchet’s conscripting us into helping First Aid with his homework.”

“If that were the theme, he really would have stuck us with the other book,” First Aid laughed, and Ratchet had to agree. A book on basics would be well below the technical level of any of First Aid’s “homework”, though he still might manage to learn things from it. Ratchet was looking forward to seeing if he could learn anything himself, even if he didn’t admit it to preserve the illusion that he’d already read it before.

“We could always do a double feature,” Ratchet said, cheekily sending the directory code for  _ Cybercrosis and Other Causes of Incremental Shutdown.  _ “Anyone who wants to can read both.”

“Pfft. Pass.” 

Rung and Cyclonus both opted to “pass” much more quietly, while First Aid complained that he was probably going to have to read it again anyway.

“Well, if we’re done, then we should finish off the snacks so Ultra Magnus doesn’t catch us in the halls with them.” Rung grinned wickedly. “I take no responsibility if they end up outside this room.”

“Noted,” Ratchet said, reaching for a couple of the remaining rust sticks. Everyone else made quick work of clearing off the table, and if Ratchet used their distraction to sneak one of the rust sticks into his subspace for Drift, well… He crunched slowly on the other, lingering as Cyclonus and then First Aid both departed.

“Staying to help with clean up?”

“I might as well,” Ratchet answered Smokescreen. “Drift hasn’t said anything about escaping Ultra Magnus, and I thought I’d stick around to see if anyone else turned up to see what the new book is.” Most mechs would probably lose interest when they found out, but Ratchet could encourage them to skip a meeting and come back next time.

A few people did come by. Pipes got bored when he saw the book, though he promised Ratchet he’d check back after the next meeting. Skids also lost interest, but took the book and promised to read it anyway. Hound came by and actually did seem interested, so there was a win.

Still no word from Drift. Ultra Magnus was very efficient at monopolizing a mech’s time when he wanted to be.

Smokescreen waved as he left, claiming to want some recharge, but Rung fell in next to Ratchet. “There’s a reason, I think, why you’re interested in banned literature…” the psychiatrist trailed off, leadingly.

“Who said anything about banned literature?”

“Hmmm… you’re right,” Rung conceded. “Not banned. Just ones that have something to teach us about not repeating mistakes that let to the war.”

“It’s all part of my new Adapt To Peace Program,” Ratchet said loftily, then shrugged. “And maybe I do have a reason to take a more open-minded approach to certain things now than I might have done before.”

_ “Whatever _ your reasons,” Rung said pointedly, “it’s a commendable goal, one I think deserves support.”

“Does that mean you  _ would  _ support it?” Ratchet hadn’t admitted to anything yet, but Rung had obviously already figured him out. The conversation they weren’t-having was already skirting a few lines. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to broach certain subjects with the command staff.” One specific member of the command staff, but Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure where Rodimus would come down on the issue if Ultra Magnus remained firmly against it. “There could be valuable insights we’re missing out on given the current restrictions on what may be included in the library.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Rung said cheerfully. He trotted to keep up with Ratchet’s longer strides, though the larger medic had slowed to accommodate him. “Even if my understanding of what we might be missing has been expanded recently.”

That was one way of putting it. “Thank you.”

Rung waved that off. “You’re not alone, Ratchet.”

Conveniently, Drift chose that moment to ping so Ratchet didn’t have to figure out what to do with with  _ that _ statement.  _ “Meet you somewhere?”  _ he asked, indicating to Rung he’d gotten a call.

_ “Your quarters? Maybe he won’t look for me there…” _

_ “Not quite a full escape then?”  _ Ratchet didn’t mind hiding.  _ “Sure. Let yourself in if I’m not there yet.” _

_ “Thanks.” _

“Drift,” Ratchet explained. “I’m going to go let him know how the meeting went.”

“It was fun.” Rung turned down the corridor toward his office. “We definitely appreciate his insights. Recharge well, both of you.”

“You too.”

Given their relative locations when Drift had called, Ratchet thought he’d get to his quarters first. He chuckled when he opened the door and found Drift already there. “You must have been walking awfully fast.”

“I admit nothing,” Drift told the pad he was lying prone on, muffling his voice somewhat. “Come lay down with me?”

“I can do that.” Ratchet sat down on the berth and lay back, opening his arms for Drift to roll into. “Rung said thank you for the notes. Your observations came up several times throughout the meeting.”

“Yay.” This time Drift’s voice was muffled by Ratchet’s chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. “I would have prefered being there in person though.”

“I would have, too. Definitely a case of unfortunate timing. How did it go, by the way? Besides apparently not being over, if you’re hiding from him.”

“The mech is obsessive,” Drift burrowed tighter into Ratchet’s embrace, “and I can’t even tell him that I know perfectly well how to use a semicolon. Or rather, I  _ could, _ but my degree wouldn’t exactly carry any weight with him.” He took a deep in-vent and Ratchet felt his frame tense and then relax piece by piece as he let it out. “Sorry. Tired and whiny.”

“Understandably.” Ratchet stroked a hand over his plating. “Sitting for breems playing stupid and being insulted isn’t fun.”

Drift purred. “At least he’s helping me with my remedial legal classes. And he agreed to cover for me next cycle. Offered, even.”

“That’s something.” Not what they’d been after, but still good. “And he didn’t seem suspicious at all?”

“He asked what brought this on and I told him selling that scrap on Hedonia made me realize how much of it I’d forgotten.” Drift’s engine kept purring. “So we’re starting with the provisions on buying and selling technology. I’m going to try and work him around to explaining prison facilities and Phase Sixers over the next couple cycles.”

“Sounds like a good approach.” Ratchet hoped it would work, and that when the discussion got to that point it would uncover a feasible alternative to killing Overlord. “But I imagine you’ve had more than enough legal talk for the cycle. Want to hear what First Aid and Cyclonus had to say about romantic character development?”

Drift’s exhausted EM field abruptly brightened. “Primus,  _ yes.” _

Ratchet chuckled and nuzzled Drift’s helm before starting on the sordid tale of a sordid tale.

.

.

.

For the first time since just after Hedonia, Ratchet declined having a Decepticon helper in the medbay for his shift. Blueray took up a berth and the guard tried his best to stay out of the way, but wasn’t always successful. True, Ratchet almost never used all of the berths at once, unless it was during combat, so Blueray using one of them for his tasks wasn’t normally an issue, but when Ratchet walked in, First Aid was already cheerfully setting up Blueray’s normal berth for a rather special procedure.

“Hello,” he practically sang, straightening a tray of tools. “No pass-ons, as you can see.”

“Good way to start the cycle.” Ratchet checked his setup and nodded. First Aid would do just fine. “And no reason to think that will change, since the Happy Weasels aren’t practicing until next shift.”

“During Ambulon’s shift, yeah.” First Aid poked the tools again, but they were aligned perfectly. “Drift said you suggested he come to me for this.”

“I did, yes.” Ratchet smiled at his apprentice. “I know you’ll do a good job.”

“It’s a pretty simple procedure,” First Aid acknowledged. “I just thought he’d have you do it, because… you’re you.”

“I’m also harder for him to schedule an appointment with, because of the way we’ve organized our schedules so we can do other things together.” 

First Aid giggled. “That makes sense. Still,” he calmed, “thanks. For believing in me.”

“You’ve earned it,” Ratchet said seriously, reaching out to clasp First Aid’s shoulder. “Smokescreen was joking the other cycle, but you really have done your homework, and put in a lot of effort since you came on board. It won’t be long now before you get to find out firsthand just how much fun my job is.”

First Aid giggled again. “I think I’m doing most of your datawork as it is.”

“Ah, but you haven’t had the pleasure of officer meetings yet.” Which, granted, were much less frequent and much less of a nuisance here than they had been at other postings, but still. “Anyway, how would I know if you could handle the datawork if I didn’t test you on it first?”

“And give yourself more time to hang out with Dri~ift.”

“Here,” the mech in question announced from the door. He smiled with easy confidence, but Ratchet saw the perfectly even vent cycles for the self control they were, rather than a lack of nervousness. “I’m on time, right?”

“Yes! You are.” First Aid beamed at him. “Come look at the pair I picked out and make sure they’re the right color.”

Ratchet stepped back, making room for Drift to come up to the table. He reached out to take his hand when he got close enough. Drift squeezed back with a smile and a very minute relaxing of his shoulders. 

First Aid burbled happily at them, but didn’t say anything about how “sweet” they were being. “Here,” he picked up the lens and held it up so Drift could see. It was a light pink. “I was playing with some glass coatings and found one that will darken when exposed to UV light, which you can create with one of your backlighting settings. Right now, this kind of light pink will let a lot of the backcolor show, mostly in the red and yellow parts of the visible spectrum, but when it’s darkened, it’ll be a bit deeper red than your accents. That’ll give you some flexibility!” He seemed very excited about his discovery. He handed it and a small UV penlight to Drift so he could see what it did himself. “You won’t be able to imitate blue, but you could probably adopt an orangey gold, or a dark purple, if you ever find yourself in a situation where red would cause trouble.”

More cutting edge, experimental ideas. It was one of the ways that First Aid already outstripped Ratchet, and Ratchet couldn’t help but be impressed. “That’s ingenious. The coating doesn’t make it more fragile or susceptible to the elements?”

“Nope!” The other medic bounced on his heels excitedly, while the lens in Drift’s hands slowly darkened to a deep ruby color. “I stress tested them. I actually got the idea from some of that Earth-data. Their optic— eyes are sensitive to UV, apparently, so they’ve been making coated lenses for decades now. Such a short time for us, but a long time to them! So I had a lot of data to pull from.”

Using the technological developments of a species generally less advanced than they were? What an interesting place to draw inspiration from. “Drift?” Ratchet asked, unable to tell through Drift’s controlled calm what he thought of the surprise.

“If you don’t like them, we can use a pair of standard lenses for you,” First Aid offered. “I did kind of surprise you with this.”

“No. It’s very thoughtful.” Drift held up the now-ruby lens. “I like this color. Getting used to the variable color will take some time, but that’s true of a standard color change too.” He smiled. “Thank you, First Aid.”

“Oh good! I hoped you’d like them!” First Aid beamed. “You’re very welcome!”

“I should let you two get started then,” Ratchet said. 

Drift put both the lens and the penlight down and reached out to squeeze Ratchet’s hand again. He leaned forward and quickly bunted their helm crests together. “See you on the flip side?”

“Of course.” Ratchet smiled. “I’m looking forward to it. In the meantime, I have line flushes to deal with for the offliners.” He stepped back, heading for the room where they were all hooked up to life support. Drift gave him one last nervous-excited smile as he climbed up on the berth and inserted the sedative into his own port. The program gave him just enough time to lay back before his frame went limp.

“I’ll leave the door open, so just point anyone who comes in my way,” Ratchet said, then made good on getting the line flushes going. It wouldn’t help any of them recover, but it would keep their systems running smoother and more comfortably. Ratchet wished there was more they could do for them, but short of a miracle (and First Aid had already said he didn’t have anything for them like he’d had for Fort Max), they just didn’t have the facilities to do anything but keep them going and hope self repair pulled off the impossible. Any chance of reframing their sparks lay back on Cybertron.

Or maybe with the Knights of Cybertron, Ratchet thought sarcastically.

It was a tedious, familiar task that could keep a medic occupied all shift, but didn’t take up so much attention that he couldn’t step away, if necessary, to deal with the usual parade of minor stupidity. With a lob ball practice session coming up there weren’t any fights, which Ratchet appreciated. It gave him more time to work in peace.

At least, he sighed to himself when Pipes stumbled in spitting acrid smoke from all of his vents, it wasn’t boring. Peaceful shifts were good; boring ones were not.

“When did this start?” Ratchet asked, moving Pipes under an exhaust fan to draw away the smoke while he figured out how to make it stop. “Was it sudden, or a gradual buildup?”

“Um… all at once,” Pipes coughed. “I guess. Right after I fell in the oil reservoir.”

“After you fell in the—” Ratchet broke off, not even bothering to finish the sentence. “Did you rinse off after you got out, or just come straight here?”

Pipes started to answer and was interrupted by a coughing fit that sent smoke spiralling up into the ventilation fan. “Rinsed. Tried to.”

“But the coughing got in the way.” Somehow he’d gotten oil somewhere it didn’t belong, either by not sealing his vents properly when he’d fallen in the reservoir (reasonable enough if it had been an accident, or even if someone had pushed him by surprise) or when he’d gone to rinse off. “Let’s start with a more thorough wash and go from there.”

A quick spin through a decontamination stall left Pipes dripping in acetone, but feeling a bit better. The crud had managed to get in under his plating, coating some of his wires in a thin film of yuck that the shower couldn’t touch, but it did wash away some of the irritants in his primary ventilation system causing him to cough, so he was actually able to lay back down on the medical berth more comfortably.

It did not get rid of the smoke.

“You aren’t running your auxiliary exhaust systems, are you?”

“Not at the moment.” Pipes looked worried. “Should I?”

“No,” Ratchet shook his head. “Not yet. You may need to do a quick cycle to clear things out, but let’s hold off on adding any corrosive smoke to the mix.” Burning oil was bad enough, which was what Ratchet suspected the smoke was. Combining flammable substances with hot internal components was a great way to get small electrical fires too. Ratchet grabbed both cleanser and fire retardant. “Unhook your armor for me so I can clean out the rest.”

“Just move it, or unhook it all the way?”

“All the way. It’s had enough time to drip down through your external systems, and I don’t want to leave anything smoldering.”

“Uh, okay.” Gingerly, Pipes started unhooking armor plates, twitching in embarrassment as each one came away. He started with his feet, obviously needing the time to work up to removing his torso armor. Ratchet wheeled over an instrument cart where he could put them down. He intended to  _ clean _ those before Pipes put them back on.

He would have felt justified in being so thorough even if he hadn’t encountered any hidden problem areas, though it probably made Pipes feel a little better about being so exposed when Ratchet found and doused a small, slow-burning fire near the flow-control valve for his coolant deep inside his chassis. Or maybe it just unnerved him more to find out about it; either way it wasn’t a problem anymore.

He sent Pipes and his armor through the decontamination stall (separately) once more, then helped the mech get his back plating on. He would have helped him with the rest of it too, but the medbay’s systems alerted him that someone else was coming in. Since Pipes didn’t need anything else (except maybe to be left alone to lick his now-metaphorical wounds), Ratchet told him to call him if he needed additional assistance with his armor and went to see what else this ship had in store for him this cycle.

Which seemed to be Cyclonus, pacing agitatedly near one of the medical berths.

“Can I help you with something?” Ratchet asked. He didn’t look injured, but his behavior suggested something was definitely wrong.

Cyclonus paced the length of the medbay again, obviously conflicted. Ratchet was patient… ish.

“Tailgate is experiencing symptoms,” he finally spat out.

Tailgate. Who was not currently in the medbay, and thus impossible to examine. “What sort of symptoms?”

“Dizziness, nausea, lethargy when coming out of recharge,” Cyclonus listed off reluctantly. Reluctant because he felt he was “tattling” on Tailgate, or because he wasn’t sure of what he was observing, Ratchet couldn’t tell. Probably some of both. “Lethargy when entering recharge.” Clawed hands clenched slowly, then released. “Pain. Difficulties transforming.”

“Difficulties transforming?” That and lethargy coming in and out of recharge were the most troubling of the lot. The rest weren’t usually reason for concern unless they were persistent, particularly given this crew’s love of intoxicants and exertions. “Has he said something about all of this?”

“He has not.” A deep vent cycle to calm and steel himself, and Cyclonus continued. “He believes his difficulties stem from his long inactivity. However, his tendency to have difficulty initiating transformation, and to occasionally get stuck once transformed, has not cleared up. I believe he has only had a single public incident, but I have witnessed others.”

“I have a note about stiff joints and transformation from when he first came on board in his file,” Ratchet said, remembering his initial examination of the minibot. “Given how long he was in stasis, that’s what I attributed it to at time. He’d sustained a fair amount of damage, and I expected the repairs to take a while to settle completely.” Which they should have done by now, so if he was still experiencing difficulties… “When did you start noticing these things? Before or after,” he had to ask, “you started reading the new book club selection?”

Cyclonus nodded as though he’d expected the question. “He has always shown occasional difficulties transforming. Lethargy began approximately a quartex ago. Dizziness and nausea approximately a decacycle ago. Pain only two cycles ago.”

That made Cyclonus’ concerns less likely to be a hypochondriac response by proxy, though not impossible. If nothing else, what he’d read was likely behind him coming to Ratchet  _ now  _ about something he’d already been peripherally aware of. Regardless, Ratchet wasn’t about to dismiss his observations out of hand. Something might actually be wrong with Tailgate, something that wouldn’t be obvious during his semi-regular appointments for small dents.

“He should probably come in so I can check him out,” Ratchet said, holding up a hand. “It may not be anything serious, but it’s worth looking into. Do you want to say something to him, or should I schedule a general follow-up physical instead?”

Cyclonus’ expression didn’t change, but Ratchet thought he detected a hint of relief in his EM field. “I will find him.”

“Alright, then.” Ratchet nodded. “You know where to find me.”

He nodded and stalked silently out the door. It swished closed behind him with a moody  _ hiss _ that made Ratchet wonder when his door had started echoing the emotions of those walking through it.

“So, I’m good? I can just go now…?” Pipes edged out of the decontamination stall and towards the moody door.

“Got all your pieces?”

“Yeah. And no smoke!”

“Then yes, you’re good to go — just not back to the oil reservoir, you hear me?”

“Nope! Never going there again!” Pipes scurried out and Ratchet could swear he heard the door laughing as it closed.

“Yeah, I don’t believe him either,” Ratchet muttered.

“You realize you’re talking to a door,” First Aid commented cheerfully without looking up from Drift’s partially disassembled face.

“You realize it’s none of your business if I am.” And just how had he known Ratchet had been talking to the door and not, say, a lamp, or a berth, or thin air in general? Slightly more concerned about the door than he had been before, Ratchet returned to the offliners to check on their progress. 

The coolant flush he’d started before Pipes had wandered in was long finished. If they had been awake, aware patients, Ratchet wouldn’t have dared leave them hooked up to the equipment without supervision like he had, since it was very uncomfortable, but with their level of brain activity, they couldn’t actually feel it. Still he hurried to get it all unhooked so he could start attaching the equipment for a hydraulic fluid flush.

He was watching the congealed sludge drip into the disposal unit when the medbay sensors alerted him to another patient. He disliked leaving them in this stage, but it wasn’t like they were going to be moving any joints.

“—ut me down! Cyclonus!”

That sounded suspiciously like Tailgate. Sure enough, when Ratchet came out to look he found Cyclonus  _ carrying  _ the minibot in outstretched arms like he was some sort of hazard. “Did you even say anything first, or did you just pick him up and cart him in here?”

“I said he should come see you,” Cyclonus said evenly, dropping Tailgate on the nearest medberth. “He obfuscated and I declined arguing with him.” 

“I see.” Ratchet put a hand on Tailgate’s shoulder to keep him from sliding off the edge of the berth and making an escape. “Why didn’t you want to come?”

“Because I’m  _ fine.” _ Tailgate thumped himself on his chest. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Cyclonus seems to think otherwise, and I’d feel better if we did a few scans to be on the safe side based on what he told me.”

Tailgate shot Cyclonus a wounded look, but he only looked back with disinterest, doing an admirable impression of someone who didn’t care a bit about what was happening. Tailgate gave an explosive sigh. “I’m  _ fine.” _

“Have you not been having difficulties transforming then? Or with recharge?” Ratchet asked, pulling over one of the more in-depth scanners. 

“After millions of vorns in stasis,” Tailgate shrugged, “stiff joints and t-cog issues are a thing. It’s nothing serious. And I’ve been tired because I’ve been doing things.” 

“Your initial difficulties and stiffness were a result of prolonged stasis, yes, but you should be feeling better the more active you are in that regard, not worse.” The scanner didn’t show anything damaged or out of place, so Ratchet moved on to checking fluid levels. “What sort of things have you been doing?”

“The usual: we went out drinking on Hedonia. And I got to meet Thunderclash! And I’ve been trying to read that book, but Rewind’s letting me help with his movie. Isn’t that cool? And I think Nutjob’s going to let me try out for the team next time they need new players, so I need to practice lob ball so I get really good at it. And there’s a group of us who’ve been hanging out at Swerve’s a lot—”

“That’s  _ definitely  _ enough activity that you should have been feeling better,” Ratchet cut him off, frowning. He wasn’t low on hydraulic fluid, but there were signs of tightening and microstress in several of his joints — joints Ratchet had replaced shortly after the  _ Lost Light  _ had left Cybertron, and which should have been functioning fine. “On a scale of one to ten, how much pain do you generally experience in a cycle?”

Tailgate tipped his head thoughtfully. “I mean it’s not like I’ve gotten shot, you know,  _ ever.” _

“I don’t mean scale your pain to the worst thing you can imagine or have seen someone else go through,” Ratchet clarified. Tailgate had seen Cyclonus and Rewind literally  _ blown up  _ at point blank range; compared to that, practically anything would seem like a minor inconvenience. “I mean, how aware of being in pain or not are you, and do you find yourself not doing things you want to do or cutting activities short because you’re hurting?”

“A little, but I’m just stiff. It goes away.”

“How frequently?”

“I don’t know, every cycle.” 

Behind Tailgate, Cyclonus’ optics narrowed. Ratchet took that to mean Tailgate was either downplaying his symptoms or unaware of how severe they were. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dealt with either as a medic.

“What’s concerning me,” he said, frowning again at the scanner, “is that your joints have wear and deterioration that they shouldn’t. You have sufficient fuel and fluid levels, but they look like they’re intermittently locking up and grinding as you force them to move again.”

“What does that mean, doctor?” Cyclonus rumbled when Tailgate just shrugged dismissively again. 

“It means that I’d like to link up and run some more detailed diagnostics,” Ratchet said. “The scanners aren’t showing a clear physical cause, so the next place to look is at an internal coding level. Maybe you’ve got rogue nanites or something,” he threw out at random. “I won’t know unless I check.”

“And if you don’t find anything, you’ll get Cyclonus off my case?”

“Yes.” 

Tailgate flopped dramatically — Ratchet wasn’t sure if he was imitating Whirl or the captain — onto his stomach to give Ratchet access to the data ports along his spine. “The top one doesn’t open too well, next one down okay?” The promised port cover slid open.

“That’s,” also not a good sign, “fine.” Ratchet unspooled a cable and connected, shaking hands with the same basic firewalls he’d updated for Tailgate when he’d joined the crew. Almost immediately, he was assaulted with a list of complaints from the minibot’s self-repair systems, which were struggling to keep up with a whole slew of problems despite running at full efficiency. What was going on?

Tailgate just kicked his heels casually, unworried. Ratchet was buffeted by his total lack of concern. He didn’t understand just how weird his systems were behaving. It was easy to forget that he’d only been alive, awake and aware and experiencing things, for the short span of time that Ratchet had known him. The brief interval between his coming online and falling into stasis barely counted, and certainly didn’t factor into his concept of what was “normal” for his frame.

With all of his experience as a medic, however, Ratchet was sure that this was anything but normal. He tracked back through repair logs and processing trees, trying to identify the source of the stiffness and seizing that was behind the damage. He wasn’t finding any faulty commands; if anything, he wasn’t finding  _ enough  _ commands, as though Tailgate’s frame was just intermittently, not fully, connecting to his processor and spark. But there was no lost time indicating his processor was skipping… 

Ratchet felt a sinking sensation in his own spark.

“Ratchet?” Tailgate’s heels stopped moving; some of Ratchet’s dread must have transmitted.

“I haven’t isolated the problem, but I’m narrowing it down,” Ratchet said, wondering if he should ask Cyclonus to leave. Whatever the problem turned out to be, it looked like it was spark-related, and that was never a good thing. Tailgate had a right to hear the news alone.

“So there is a problem.” Cyclonus glared; he didn’t seem at all pleased to be proven correct.

Ratchet wasn’t exactly happy about it either. “Unfortunately, yes. Would you prefer to continue in private, Tailgate?”

_ Now _ Tailgate looked — and felt — worried. “Um. I don’t know?”

“I’ll leave,” Cyclonus announced firmly in the face of Tailgate’s uncertainty. “If he wishes to inform me, he will do so later.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and stalked out of the medbay. Probably to go lurk in the hall.

Tailgate just looked stunned.

“I didn’t know if you’d be more comfortable getting the news alone first or not,” Ratchet said. “You have a right to medical privacy, and some mechs don’t like everyone to know when they’re sick.”

“Yeah, okay.” He fidgeted nervously. “But I thought you didn’t know what was wrong yet?”

“I don’t have a specific diagnosis, but I do know what systems are affected. Give me a few more kliks, alright?”

“Okay.” 

Tailgate didn’t stop fidgeting. It didn’t interfere with his diagnostics, so Ratchet let him. There was no getting around the fact that he was waiting for bad news. The only question was, how bad?

Worse than Ratchet had even considered, as it turned out.

_ “First Aid?”  _

_ “Drift can’t hear anything,” _ the junior medic said.  _ “I’m almost done with his optics; if you’re not done with Tailgate before then, I can wheel him into ISO to wake him up.” _

_ “As long as he’s still out.”  _ Ratchet held back a sigh.  _ “I may need you over here in a klik.” _

_ “I’ll find a stopping point.” _

“Ratchet?”

“You can sit up,” Ratchet said, disconnecting and retracting his cable. “The reason you’re having pain, lethargy, and difficulty transforming is because your spark isn’t providing sufficient, consistent energy to your frame. It’s,” there was no gentle way to say this, “giving out.”

Tailgate pulled his knees up to his chest and looked at Ratchet, uncomprehending. “What does that mean?”

“It means all of those symptoms are going to get worse. You’re in the early stages of incremental shutdown, where you gradually lose function until… well, until you shut down.”

“Shut down…? You mean I’m  _ dying?” _ Tailgate practically screeched.

“I’m very sorry,” Ratchet said, noticing First Aid’s head coming up at the sudden cry out of the corner of his optic. “It’s known as Cybercrosis, a disease where the spark gives out gradually due to only partially known factors — the most common of which is age.”

“But I’ve only been awake for a couple of quartexes!”

“I know. But your spark is still six million vorns old.” Which was incredibly unfair, but there was nothing Ratchet could do about it. “You could also have been exposed to damaging radiation while you were in stasis, but essentially you’re dying of old age.”

“Oh.” Tailgate huddled closer to himself, resting his head on his knees. “But you can fix it right?” 

“No one can,” Ratchet said gently. “It’s incurable.”

“Oh.” Tailgate fidgeted again. “How long?”

“Based on your current spark output and stability? Not very.” Ratchet had checked and double-checked, anticipating the question. “It’s been progressing since you woke up, and it quickens once shutdown begins. At this point, you’re likely looking at a decacycle or two.”

_ “I can come over whenever you need, Ratchet,” _ First Aid commed while Tailgate proccessed that.

_ “Do you have a miracle you can bring with you?”  _ Ratchet asked without much hope.

_ “What’s the clinical diagnosis? Spark shutdown from old age… Cybercrosis?” _ First Aid considered.  _ “I don’t think I have a miracle for that.” _

“I didn’t know we  _ could _ die of old age,” Tailgate said, sounding rather detached.

“There’s this idea that we’re immortal, that it’s possible for the spark to go on forever. A lot of that stems from religious nonsense,” Ratchet said derisively, “but even some otherwise rational minds shy away from the evidence to the contrary. And there is evidence — Pharma recorded a confirmed case of age-related burnout before he went mad.”

“Oh. What’s going to happen to me?” Tailgate’s optic band was getting brighter with the onset of panic.

“Right now your t-cog is still functioning, but it’s straining. Soon it will give out and you’ll lose the ability to transform. The pain and stiffness in your joints will progress until your limbs freeze up completely, and your optical and audial sensors will deteriorate and eventually cease functioning. There may — may, it’s not a guarantee — be memory loss as well.”

“Paralysed? Blind?  _ Amnesia?” _ Tailgate’s visor was truly bright with panic now. His systems were heating up and Ratchet heard a single, unhealthy sounding, fan come on in his chassis. “I think I need…” He almost fell off of the medical berth. “This is too much.” He wobbled as he caught his balance, then ran out. The door opened with a sympathetic  _ woosh _ and Ratchet barely saw Cyclonus catch the minibot before it closed again.

“It’s really Cybercrosis?” First Aid asked, joining Ratchet as he shook himself and began tidying up the equipment he’d used. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Ratchet knew he wasn’t asking because he doubted his diagnosis. He just wanted him to be wrong for Tailgate’s sake, something Ratchet honestly wished as well. “There’s nothing we can do. Nothing we could have done, even if we’d identified it sooner.”

“I want to suggest we try a spark jumpstart, but it won’t work.” First Aid’s engine growled in frustration. “That’s specifically for injured sparks that just need some extra energy to stabilize, but Tailgate’s… He’d practically need a new spark.” The growl hiccuped. “It’s not fair.”

It really wasn’t. Ratchet looked down at his hands — Pharma’s hands, the hands that had confirmed age-related burnout — which had tightened into fists. “How long would you estimate he has?” he asked, sending First Aid a copy of his findings.

First Aid didn’t answer right away, concentrating on the scans. “More than a decacycle,” he concluded, “but less than two.”

Ratchet sighed. “It’s not fair.”

First Aid’s engine hiccuped again. “Drift’s ready to come out of stasis whenever you want,” he offered as a distraction.

“Right. Yes.” That was something happy to think about. “Just give me a klik.” Drift would know immediately if he saw him right now that something was wrong, and Ratchet didn’t want him to worry.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Gently, First Aid touched the back of Ratchet’s hand in comfort, then returned to Drift’s medical berth. He started to run the last of the diagnostics, testing the connections before bringing him back online. Ratchet used the time to finish his own cleanup, then stepped into the office briefly for his version of calming meditation: cursing a god he didn’t believe in, wishing he had a drink, and processor-numbing busywork.

It had been a lot more than a klik when he reemerged, once again confident in his composure, but First Aid didn’t comment. He was looking less rattled too, so the extra time had probably done him some good as well. “Let’s wake him up.”

“Waking him up now.” First Aid undid the last of the connections to the equipment and reached behind Drift to pull the sedative out of his port. “It’ll take a klik for it to clear out…”

Drift’s new optics came on, glowing pink. Ratchet saw the color flicker while he adjusted the backlighting — adjusting it to match the mood of the two medics, if Ratchet understood how his color-prayer worked. It was interesting to actually  _ see _ that, since it was usually too subtle for Ratchet to take notice of.

“Don’t try to move yet,” First Aid told him gently. “And don’t darken them with your UV setting yet. I’d like to check your vision both before and after the color changes.”

“Sure.” Drift looked between both of them. “Hey Ratch? Everything alright in the medbay?”

“What, is my ‘aura’ cloudy or something?” Ratchet smiled, focusing on Drift. “Had a rough case come in earlier, that’s all. How do you feel?”

“I feel okay. The world looks a little odd, but a new optic color does that. Your aura  _ is _ cloudy,” Drift insisted. “With a little dark blue, and a lot more green than normal. It must have been a really rough case.”

“Nice to know you’ll still be able to pester me about that.”

“Actually, it is a good sign that things are integrating properly,” First Aid said, holding up an optical scanner. “Which is fortunate, since if new optics did impact your ability to see auras, I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to go about fixing it. Are you able to see in the full spectrum?”

“Visible light or auras?” Drift asked, with a note of teasing, while Ratchet scoffed at First Aid humoring this nonsense. Their hands sought out each others’ and Drift focused on the scanner. “Yeah. I’m getting results back for the entire visible spectrum.”

“Great! What color is this?” A small light on the side of the scanner lit up.

“Green.”

“And this one?”

“Purple.”

First Aid took Drift through all the basic colors and several of the more obscure ones before he was satisfied. Then he tested Drift’s ability to discern light levels and track movement before instructing him to turn on the UV setting to darken the lenses.

Watching Drift’s optics darken to a true, deep red was fascinating. Drift started to look away at one point, but Ratchet stopped him, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze. 

First Aid repeated each of his checks, burbling happily at the results. “Good. Here.” He produced a mirror from his subspace. “Take a look while I update your records.”

Drift’s hand trembled as he sat up and took the mirror. He hesitated, taking a deep in-vent, then looked. “Oh wow.” He smiled. Ratchet saw the color flicker rapidly, adjusting the backlighting. “That’s great. Thanks, First Aid.”

From where he’d opened up the records and was copying instructions on how to fabricate replacements for Drift’s custom lenses under Ratchet’s instructions never to give Drift gold or yellow optics if an emergency replacement was necessary, First Aid nodded. “Welcome,” he sang. “I’ll make a few sets for you to keep in your subspace, just in case, to go along with these instructions. Not that I ever  _ plan _ on being unavailable as your medic…”

“But having a backup is a good idea, just in case,” Ratchet nodded, knowing Drift would appreciate it. “They really do suit you.”

“I was a little afraid I’d look like Deadlock again,” Drift said softly. “But he— I was black then. I think the white still suits.” He looked up at Ratchet, offering a slight smile. “Still not scary?”

“Not scary,” Ratchet grinned, then leaned forward to bunt his helm. “You look like  _ you,  _ and you’re beautiful.”

Drift hummed in appreciation. Ratchet could just barely, at the edge of his audio range, hear First Aid’s happy squeal.

“You should go show Rodimus,” he told Drift as he stepped back. He was supposed to be working, after all.

“I will.” Drift swung his legs off the berth and stood. “I’m troubleshooting next shift, so I can’t hang out at Swerve’s, but I’ll try and find you so we can talk.”

“All right. Ping me when and if you find a spare moment.” 

Ratchet and First Aid both waved as Drift left, sharing a look once the door closed. “That was a wonderful thing you did for him,” Ratchet said.

First Aid finished up and closed Drift’s file. “Drift, more than any of us, may find himself in a situation where red optics could get him in trouble,” he said seriously. “I wasn’t going to not do the installation, but I thought it’d be good to give him an option.” He shrugged. “I really don’t know that they’d be useful for anything else.”

“Who knows? Maybe someone will come up with something, now that the option exists.” There were plenty of creative mechs out there. “I’d tell you to clean up and get out of here, but you’ve already done the first part.”

“I can see if Ambulon has any ideas for Tailgate,” First Aid said seriously. “I’m not giving up on him.”

“Let me know if the two of you come up with anything.” Ratchet planned to dig up everything he could find on Cybercrosis and go over it too, just to be sure he hadn’t missed or forgotten anything useful. “Don’t share his status with anyone besides Ambulon, though. It’s Tailgate’s choice who he tells.”

“Of course.” First Aid chuckled, shaking his head. “I guess I am reading that boring slog of text again after all.”

“I’m right there with you,” Ratchet promised. “It’s a good thing Cyclonus came in and said something, or else we wouldn’t have found out what was happening before the final stage hit.” As if Ratchet needed more evidence that censorship and other forms of restricting information ~~by caste~~ to what was “necessary” needed to be left in the past.

“Cyclonus is a good friend,” First Aid agreed. “Call if you need me. We’re your friends too.” 

“Thank you.” 

Not for the first time, Ratchet found himself appreciating having such a good team… even if it turned out there really was nothing they could do.

Fortunately, the cycle didn’t have any other cases — difficult or otherwise — for him to deal with. It gave Ratchet time to pull out  _ Cybercrosis and Other Causes of Incremental Shutdown: Clinical Diagnoses and Palliative Care Options _ and go over the case studies. He didn’t want to focus on palliative care for Tailgate, but he wasn’t sure he how could avoid it. Cybercrosis had been around a long time, had been around even when Tailgate was first forged, but there just weren’t many medical advances related to it.

Maybe if there hadn’t been a great big war getting in the way… 

By the end of his shift, the only thing Ratchet had to show for his efforts was a budding processor ache and the suggestion that reducing or eliminating transformation before the t-cog gave out might extend the functional life of other systems. There was no conclusive evidence that it would make a difference, and no consensus on how much time it would buy if it did, but it was something. 

He put away the books — yes, plural — and sat back in his chair to indulge in a moment of despair before hauling himself back up as Ambulon came in. “Did First Aid find you?”

“He did.”

“Then you already know about the one real pass-on I have, though of course he’s not here at the moment.” Ratchet wondered if he was still with Cyclonus. For the minibot’s sake, he hoped he was with  _ someone,  _ and not just huddled up somewhere alone staring down his own death. “I’m going to tell him that he shouldn’t transform, even while he still can, as a precaution, but…” 

“I understand.” Ambulon’s manner was rather flat and neutral rather than sympathetic. Detached. Ratchet couldn’t fault him for how he chose to deal with it. “I’ll do some research during any downtime I have and let you know what I find.”

“Thank you.” It was all Ratchet could ask. “Have a good shift.”

Now. Time for that drink.

Swerve’s was decently populated when Ratchet arrived. A group of mechs had set up for board games at one of the tables, and most of the other booths were occupied. Ratchet grabbed a spot at the counter, determined not to think about Cybercrosis for awhile.

“Hey Ratchet,” Swerve greeted cheerfully as he came over. “In honor of Ultra Magnus: have you heard about the semicolon who broke the law?”

“What?” It took a nanoklik to parse that, and when he did, Ratchet still didn’t get the joke. “No.”

“It was given two consecutive sentences.” Swerve’s grin grew wider.

Ratchet groaned. “Because what my day needed to be complete was a dose of Ultra Magnus-style humor.”

“Problem? Tell me about it while I get your drink.”

“I’ve been staring at the same thing for the last several joors and need to think about something else before my processor forgets how to change gears,” Ratchet said, glossing over any specifics or details. Swerve deserved to hear the news from his friend, not him. “Anything interesting happen in here today? I see you’ve managed not to lose any chairs for nearly a straight decacycle.”

“It’s been great.” Swerve went with the change of subject readily enough, delivering a rather strong drink to Ratchet in the process. “I’d say we’re overdue, but that would be jinxing it. I’m just going to praise Primus for lob ball tiring out the worst of the troublemakers and leave it at that.” He waved in acknowledgement to Sunstreaker further down the bar and started mixing his drink. “As for interesting things that have happened… you know Drift went ahead and changed optic colors, right?”

“I did know, yes.” And he should have known the news would have already reached Swerve. It had probably made it to every corner of the ship by now. “Have you seen him yet? I think the new color works really well.” Ratchet smiled as he knocked back a good portion of his drink in one shot. “Of course, I might be a little biased where he’s concerned.”

“A  _ little _ biased?” Swerve said disbelievingly, but not without a note of humor. “He hasn’t been through here, so no, I haven’t seen him yet,” the bartender continued more seriously. “I’ve probably heard the whole range of opinions though, from ‘finally!’ to ‘oh, Primus he’s going to kill us all!’. Not a lot in that second category though, and since the likes of Ultra Magnus and his ilk aren’t worried, I’m just going to assume our third in command isn’t getting subliminal messages from Megatron. Be right back.” He took off to deliver the finished drink to Sunstreaker.

Pfft. Subliminal messages from Megatron. The idea was so ridiculous that Ratchet laughed to himself as he took another drink.

“Care to explain the joke?” Perceptor asked as he slid onto the barstool next to Ratchet’s. In a rare attempt to follow the “No Guns” rule, Perceptor had removed the targeting lense for his sniper cannon, allowing Ratchet to see both of his optics for the first time since… he wasn’t sure when.

“Subliminal messages from Megatron,” Ratchet replied, laughing again at Perceptor’s perplexed look. “Apparently some mechs think Drift’s new optics are cause for concern.”

“Preposterous,” the scientist scoffed, waving for Swerve’s attention. “I will admit the blue served him well around the time he first changed sides, but the Wreckers fell under Prowl’s purview. I sincerely doubt he would have missed signs of Drift being a double agent when he was looking for them. Openly declaring a desire for a different optic color hardly counts as such, even to that paranoid, overly analytical glitch.”

“True, but Prowl isn’t here now.” Thank goodness. There were already two paranoid glitches who could cause a fuss and… “The crew is more likely to feel reassured by Ultra Magnus and Red Alert’s confidence.”

“True enough, and since it’s been a few joors and the intruder alert sirens haven’t gone off…” Perceptor chuckled. “Cosmic Stardust,” he ordered as Swerve returned. 

“Coming up. So Percy—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—what’s the difference between ignorance and apathy?”

Perceptor sighed. “I don’t know and I don’t care,” he said flatly, which left Swerve gaping.

“That’s the answer, isn’t it? Besides just being the right thing to say to that,” Ratchet chuckled, amused by the double meaning. “I’m going to need another, by the way.”

Swerve shook off his stupor. “Coming right up. Though I should charge extra for ruining my joke!”

“I assure you it wasn’t intentional,” Perceptor assured without a flicker of his EM field that might hint at a lie. “I’ve never heard that joke before in my life.”

“Really?” Ratchet whispered once Swerve left to make their drinks.

Perceptor just shrugged.

Ratchet was still suspicious, but decided to let it go. “Have you seen Drift yet?” he asked instead. 

“Who do you think kicked us out of our labs?” Perceptor returned mournfully, jerking his head over to where Brainstorm was ordering his own drink from Skids. “Apparently, Brainstorm has foregone recharge in favor of finishing his latest project and weapon designers aren’t allowed to go more than three cycles without a shower.”

“That doesn’t explain why he kicked  _ you  _ out,” Ratchet pointed out. “Unless he was hoping that by kicking you out, Brainstorm would just follow you.”

Perceptor scoffed.

“And did he? Finish his latest project, I mean?”

A shout from the cluster of mechs around Brainstorm rose up almost in answer. Ratchet whirled just in time to see a swarm of little helicopters buzzing around madly while Brainstorm looked on indulgently. Little blue helicopters that looked suspiciously like—

“Apparently,” Perceptor answered in a sort of strangled sounding voice, “they’re patterned after Whirl, right down to their personality components.”

“So much for not jinxing it,” Ratchet said, and finished off his first drink. “Hey Swerve! I think your overdue incident just arrived!”

“As long as they don’t—” The little Whirl-bots  _ vippped _ out of sight with a pop of displaced air. A nanoklik later a table collapsed amid shrieks — of surprise and laughter — from the nearby mechs. “Nevermind. Hey!” Swerve stomped over. “You and your things need to leave!”

“But I’m not allowed back in my lab!” Brainstorm said cheerfully. “And just look at them! Aren’t they marvelous? Quick, agile, efficient—”

“Invisible,” Ratchet said, unable to spot any of the destructive little devils as a chair collapsed beneath Aquastar. “Anyway I thought the point was that these  _ weren’t  _ going to be weapons.”

“They aren’t weapons! Or invisible, technically. They’re just too tiny to see with unaugmented vision when they shrink down to target nanocons — and, apparently, furniture.” Brainstorm pulled out what Ratchet assumed was a remote control and started fiddling with it. “Always things to tweak, bugs to work out. It’s only to be expected, after all! But they haven’t attacked any _ one,  _ have they?”

“That’s what he gets for patterning their AIs off of the mech who holds the highest record for broken chairs on this ship,” Perceptor muttered, otherwise studiously ignoring the whole exchange.

“I’m adding all the broken things to your  _ tab,” _ Swerve yelled as another table collapsed into pieces. “And calling security!”

“Security? But they’re innocent!” A cloud of teeny tiny helicopters materialized around Brainstorm, hovering with intent. “There, there, don’t worry, my pretties!”

“Get them out of my bar!”

Beside Ratchet, Perceptor had folded his arms on the table and put his head down in them. Ratchet patted his shoulder and watched Swerve grab a mop and start swinging wildly at the Whirl-bots. It was certainly entertaining, though Ratchet couldn’t blame Perceptor for just wanting it to be over. He had to babysit Brainstorm on a regular basis, and there was only so much crazy anyone could reasonably be expected to take.

The door slid open and the security team — headed by a fierce, ruby-opticked Drift — spilled in. They spread out around the disturbance and the bar patrons who weren’t involved quickly got out of their way.

“Brainstorm,” Drift started, optics narrowing. “Get those under control and come with us.”

“Ack.” There was more fiddling with the controls, and half the swarm returned to hover around his helm, idly bumping into him like they were trying to get his attention. The other half straight up disappeared, shrinking down into whatever Brainstorm was calling that mode. A nanoklik later, the head of the mop Swerve had been attacking them with fell to the ground, cut off from the rest of the mop.

Two breems of utter chaos later, a bound and cuffed Brainstorm was assuring Drift that the rogue Whirl-bots weren’t a danger to the ship. No, they couldn’t replicate! They couldn’t even recharge themselves; when they started running low on power, they’d return to the charging station in the lab for their naps! Not a single one of the Whirl-bots was visible, making it impossible to tell whether that was what they were doing now or if they were simply looking for something else to dismantle.

“I’m making a new rule,” Swerve declared, arms crossed fiercely over his chest. “This bar now has an occupancy limit of one Whirl-shaped thing at a time.”

There was a chorus of cheers from the gathered mechs.

Two of the security team hauled Brainstorm out into the hall and, presumably, to the brig, while Drift wound his way through the crowd toward the bar. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said when he reached Ratchet. “Hey.” His optics brightened as he wrapped his arms around Ratchet and bunted their helm crests together. Despite the seriousness of the  _ Lost Light’s _ latest spectacle, his EM field buzzed happily like carbonated liquid against Ratchet’s. “Boosh.”

“Boosh,” Ratchet replied, returning the gesture. “I hope that’s the most excitement you have to deal with this cycle,” he said, glancing over at the wrecked furniture. “Makes me glad the real Whirl wasn’t here.”

“He’s still at lob ball practice. Fortunately. Maybe he’ll stay there until all his little likenesses are accounted for.” Drift looked at Ratchet’s current drinking companion. “Hey Percy. No date yet?”

“Go play in traffic.”

Drift laughed. 

“Do I even want to—”

“No,” Perceptor said, then called over to Swerve. “Are you going to be closing while you deal with the cleanup?”

“I’ve got this,” Skids said, coming around the counter with an intact broom. “If everyone would just move over that way…” 

“I don’t mind helping,” Hound said, gamely picking up the pieces of one of the chairs.

“Me neither.”

“Yeah, we’ll just get this all out into the hallway for you. We need to go through it for our game pieces anyway,” Aquastar laughed.

“You guys are all saints,” Drift said fondly. “If Swerve has an extra broom, I can help too… until the next crazy emergency, anyway.”

“Sure,” Swerve waved to the storage cupboard Ratchet knew contained cleaning supplies. “Next drink is half off for anyone who helps, I guess.”

The offer got a few more mechs involved in the cleanup. Perceptor stayed at the bar with an offhand, “I’d only be in the way,” while Ratchet got up to work alongside Drift. He was probably right; there were enough helpers already, and it was a little tricky to move without bumping into anyone. It did make things go quickly though, and very soon the bar was clear and there was a pile of debris waiting for pickup out of the way in the hall. 

“Sorry about the limited seating,” Swerve said as he resumed his place behind the bar, “but there’s plenty of standing room now!”

There was a mixture of good natured complaints and laughing declarations of understanding. Those who’d helped clean up started calling out their drink orders. Ratchet was very pleased to note that no one was staring at Drift. There had been a couple of looks while they were cleaning, but apparently a broom was enough to offset some fears.

“I’d ask you to join me,” Ratchet said, content to let Swerve catch up with everyone else’s drinks before getting another himself, “but I know you’re working.”

“Still good to see you, even if it’s between crises.” Drift let Ratchet turn back to the counter and his drink, which had survived the Whirl-bots unscathed, but wrapped his arms around the medic’s shoulders in a loose hug. “And I’m serious, Percy, you need to relax before you do any more math.”

“Math  _ is _ relaxing,” the scientist grumbled.

“I’ll buy that, from you, but you need  _ recharge. _ He’s,” Drift said to Ratchet, “too good at hiding how tired he is. Fragging snipers.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Low blow, and also a lame comeback, Percy.”

So that was why Drift had kicked him out. Ratchet decided to keep an optic on him to make sure he didn’t pass out at the bar. “I’ll help him find a berth if he starts nodding off.”

“You can go play in traffic, too.”

Drift laughed again. “Good luck.” He bunted the back of Ratchet’s head. “I’ve got to go. I’m being paged.”

“See you later, then.” Ratchet watched him leave, then turned his attention back to Perceptor. “I’d ask why you didn’t just go to your habsuite and sleep to get him off your case, but sometimes that just isn’t possible. Drink with me until we’re both able to quiet our processors?”

“I suppose that is an adequate plan if I’m not going to be able to prove to the smug glitch how wrong he is.” Perceptor took a swig of his Cosmic Stardust, which was not a drink meant to be chugged and protested the action with a bright flash of gold in its glittering red depths.

Ratchet didn’t tell him to slow down, and as soon as his own drink arrived, he joined him.

  
  



	25. Chapter 25

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Tailgate squirmed as Ratchet finished taking his readings. It was, he reminded himself, important to track the progression of the disease, even if the powerlessness of the situation made Ratchet angry at the universe all over again. 

“Your t-cog’s almost at the point of being nonfunctional,” Ratchet told him in a calm, professional voice. His frustrations were his own problem, and Tailgate didn’t need them. “How have your symptoms been?”

“Fine.” Tailgate kicked his heels. At his own request, they were in the private consult room, so no one would see him if they walked in. “I mean, I’m not really noticing anything different. Getting up is a little stiff and painful, but that’s it.”

With his symptoms still being relatively minor in terms of how much they impacted his life, Ratchet wasn’t surprised to hear doubt in his voice. How could he be dying when it didn’t feel like anything serious was wrong? If there’d been more time, Ratchet would have sent him to Rung. With cycles to a decacycle left, however, he felt it was better for him to focus on living as much as possible while he still could, rather than dwelling on the end. “Stay mindful not to overexert yourself, but keep moving and doing things.” He had friends to help him forget. Ratchet knew he hadn’t told anyone apart from Cyclonus, who had taken the news… badly. 

Ratchet knew better than to even suggest repairing the deep scratches on his face.

“Okay. Are we done?” Tailgate looked up at Ratchet. “Chromedome wanted to show me something once I was free.”

“Don’t keep him waiting then,” Ratchet said. “Off you go.”

Tailgate hopped off the consult room’s couch and was out the door before he could say another word. There wasn’t much to clean up, but it wasn’t like Ratchet had anything else to do right no—

_ “Ultra Magnus to Ratchet. Report to conference room 2.” _

The terse message sounded about as grumpy as Ratchet felt. At least it wasn’t actually his shift and he didn’t have to get anyone to cover the medbay.  _ “On my way,”  _ he confirmed, nodding to Ambulon on his way out. 

He’d assumed the summons had to do with the Decepticon prisoners and the work program, but it wasn’t Red Alert and Fort Max waiting with Ultra Magnus when he arrived at the conference room — it was Rodimus and Drift. “You called?” Ratchet said, swallowing down his nerves.

Both Drift and Rodimus just squirmed like misbehaving fraternity members. 

“Yes.” Ultra Magnus narrowed his optics. “I’m told,” he said in a voice that would have been called a hiss from a smaller mech but from him was just terrifying, “you  _ knew _ about the idiocy these two have commited.”

“Hey!” Rodimus stood. “Don’t call Drift an idiot! Or Ratchet!”

_ Oh boy.  _ “Given the level of idiocy on this ship in general,” Ratchet said vaguely, afraid this was going exactly where he thought it was going but not willing to admit anything until he was  _ sure  _ they’d been busted, “perhaps you could be more specific?”

“If there is a second offense that even remotely approaches the  _ scale _ of the idiocy of  _ having Overlord on this ship _ I will be very, very cross with all three of you.”

“I’d almost like to see that,” Drift got his courage to jump in before Rodimus could say anything else, “just so I can take notes.”

“Stop trying to defend me!”

“No.”

They were going to be _ so _ much help. Ratchet sighed and took a seat, expecting to be here a while. “Yes, I knew,” he admitted. “Not until after we were well underway, but I’ve known about Overlord for some time now. I’ve been trying to help figure out what to do with him.”

“Drift wants to toss him into the nearest black hole,” Rodimus said while the mech in question gave him a wounded look that suggested he’d been kicked under the table. His “wounded turbopuppy” look was utterly unaffected by the change in optic color. “Ratchet wants to find a prison, but given Overlord’s a, you know,  _ Phase Sixer, _ we weren’t too sure what the Tyrest Accord had to say about the matter.”

“Hence your admittedly subtle attempt to interrogate me,” Ultra Magnus growled, and Drift flinched. “Garrus Ten is where we  _ should _ be headed, if the intent is to transport him to a suitable prison facility.”

“Nope, not an option.”

“How much did they tell you already, so I don’t waste time repeating things?” It was all going to come out; Ratchet wasn’t worried about keeping any more secrets, but he did want to try to keep the discussion somewhat organized. “Because the intent is a little more complicated than to just transfer him off the ship.”

“They got as far as assuring me they had  _ adult—” _

“I’m older than he is,” Drift blurted out while Rodimus winced at the jab.

“—oversight for their stupidity, at which point I insisted on your presence for this meeting.”

“Right, then.” How much could he get out before someone interrupted him? “We all came to an agreement that having Overlord on the ship was a bad idea shortly after I found out he was here. The problem—”

“Was it shortly, though? Because I’m pretty sure I— Ow!”

“Don’t interrupt,” Drift said, much less subtle about having returned the under-the-table kick.

_ “You  _ just interrupted—”

“The  _ problem,” _ Ratchet continued talking over them; how could they both be so  _ brilliant _ and also so  _ stupid _ under stress? “is that the mech who orchestrated Overlord’s presence onboard didn’t do so for the sake of a covert prisoner transfer, and if we aren’t covert about dealing with him, that mech will jeopardize others in a future attempt to accomplish his goals.”

“Can I talk now? You know, because I’m the  _ captain.” _ They all looked at Rodimus, who gulped at the sudden attention. “Basically, if we take Overlord to Garrus Ten, Prowl finds out, tries again, and also makes all our lives miserable in the process. Because he’s  _ Prowl _ and that’s how he rolls. So yeah. We’re not going there.”

“How noble,” Ultra Magnus said brittlely. 

Rodimus bristled, and Drift’s red optics narrowed. “Maybe  _ Tyrest’s Duly Appointed Lapdog _ needs a refresher course on what it’s like to be someone who actually has to  _ answer to Prowl _ before he starts throwing stones.”

“All three of you  _ shut up!” _ Ratchet roared in a voice that had, occasionally, brought Optimus Prime to a screeching halt. They didn't need a medic; they needed a  _ babysitter. _ “Rodimus, you’re the captain, which means  _ sometimes _ thinking before you open your mouth. Ultra Magnus, Drift is pushing your buttons every time you turn your attention to Rodimus because he’s an overprotective glitch, but it doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Drift, as admirable as defending your captain is, escalating this situation is  _ not helping.” _

All three of them looked properly chastised. Ratchet mentally decided that if it lasted ten whole nanokliks he’d call it a miracle.

“We’re not taking him to Garrus Ten,” Rodimus said, almost petulantly, in the resulting silence. “It’s not an option.”

“There are alien prisons authorized to take Cybertronian prisoners,” Drift prompted.

“Ranked on a sliding scale of what technologies are incorporated into the prisoner’s frame,” Ultra Magnus confirmed almost absently, optics narrowed at Drift in a way that, surprisingly, didn’t appear hostile.

“Right — and we didn’t know if any of the ones out this way ranked high enough. We,” Rodimus gestured to Ratchet, Drift, and, himself despite the significantly less time he’d spent on it, “spent ages going over the Accord trying to figure out what to do, but, well… When you’re stuck you call in an expert, right?”

“The scale does not extend all the way to include the Phase Sixers,” Ultra Magnus said automatically. “During negotiations, Megatron refused to reveal enough about the technology to properly assess which, if any, aliens might also be at a similar level.”

Ratchet wasn’t thrilled with that answer, but just to clarify, asked, “Does that mean we have to rule out alien prisons entirely?”

“Not necessarily,” Ultra Magnus answered thoughtfully. “Just that we do not know which, if any, aliens are authorized to take on a Phase Sixer. A Cybertronian prison is  _ still _ the best option, both for reasons of security and observance of the law.”

“And I said we’re  _ not _ dropping him anywhere Prowl will get his grubby paws on him — or us — again,” Rodimus stood, slamming his hands dramatically on his desk.

“Despite his flaws, Prowl is part of Autobot High Command—”

_ “And I’m an Autobot Prime!” _ Rodimus snarled, making Ultra Magnus back up a step. “More to the point,  _ I _ am captain of this ship, and I’m not letting Prowl get his hooks into us again.”

“I happen to be in full support of that decision,” Ratchet said, confirming a united front with Rodimus and Drift where Prowl was concerned. “While I have a great deal of respect for some of the things Prowl has done in the past, what he wants with Overlord is dangerous, and how he attempted to go about it was illegal on multiple levels.”

“Illegal actions by one party do not condone illegal actions on the part of another,” Ultra Magnus frowned, but Ratchet was already shaking his head.

“That’s why we’re trying to handle this in accordance with the law. We don’t have an obligation to confront Prowl about what he did or attempt to prosecute him,” which was fortunate because it would almost certainly be an exercise in futility, “but we do have a responsibility to deal with Overlord safely now that he is in our custody.”

“Safely for the crew, and for our race as a whole,” Drift put in. “Which is, of course, why I would prefer a more permanent solution than imprisonment, but I’ve agreed to exhaust all other possibilities first.”

“Killing Overlord would be legal,” Ultra Magnus agreed. “It is well within an Autobot Captain’s right to do so if a prisoner cannot be kept and provided for. If an Autobot prison is not an option, that may be our only recourse. I do not have the authority to simply designate an alien race as advanced enough to keep a Phase Sixer prisoner. Under the Tyrest Accord, even a  _ Prime,” _ the large mech said when Rodimus opened his mouth, “does not have that authority.”

“So that’s it. All possible avenues exhausted.” Drift had the grace not to look triumphant.

“Drift…” Ratchet couldn’t help but raise a protest.

“Ratchet,” Drift said gently. “This isn’t like the Decepticons we picked up on Temptoria. Even if some of them hadn’t been cooperative, we weren’t ever going to be unable to keep them safely. But Overlord’s different. He’s crazy, and crazy dangerous, and we can’t keep him forever. If there’s no other option…”

“I’m still not completely convinced there isn’t.” It was really starting to look like there might not be, but they didn’t have to decide right this cycle. “Who  _ does  _ have the authority to make that kind of decision?” he asked Ultra Magnus, trying not to sound desperate.

“Chief Justice Tyrest.”

Everyone fell silent, considering that. After a klik, Rodimus asked, almost quizzically, “Isn’t Tyrest in seclusion?” 

“Yes,” Ultra Magnus said, visibly thinking something over. “As the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, however, I do have the ability to contact him in the case of an emergency.”

“Which brings us right back to a repeat of the discussion we had before about whether or not to ask Mags— er, Ultra Magnus,” Rodimus corrected himself, “what we should do. You can’t just keep asking more people until you get the answer you want, Ratchet.”

“Good thing that’s not what I’m doing then,” Ratchet said, proud that he’d managed not to snap… too much. “All I’m doing is trying to determine whether there’s a legal recourse to what amounts to premeditated murder. We agreed asking Ultra Magnus was the right thing to do when we failed to interpret the Accord on our own, and if  _ he’s  _ unable to weigh in definitively, then there’s nothing wrong with appealing to the Chief Justice himself. Since he’s the highest possible authority we could go to on the matter, I’ll abide by whatever he says — even if it’s not the answer I want.”

Ratchet waited for Drift to argue, and was relieved when he decided to hold any renewed argument for killing Overlord behind his teeth. Rodimus looked back and forth between them, as though he’d expected an argument too, then sighed. “Ultra Magnus,” the captain said with uncharacteristic seriousness, “in your opinion, does the ultimate fate of the only Phase Sixer to have ever been captured warrant bothering Chief Justice Tyrest in his seclusion?”

Ultra Magnus shifted in a way Ratchet would have called uncomfortable if any other mech had done it. “Yes.”

“Good. Call him.” Rodimus turned to look at Ratchet, still serious. “This is our last stop, alright? Whatever happens, we’re making a decision after talking to Tyrest.”

“Yes. I know I can be stubborn, but I won’t keep dragging this out.”

“Good.” Rodimus nodded, satisfied. He reached over and put a hand on Drift’s arm and some silent communication passed between them. “I think this meeting is over now.”

“I still have questions about the whole situation,” Ultra Magnus said, and Ratchet found himself the target of his stern gaze when Rodimus pointed at him.

“Ask the ‘adult supervision’,” the captain said, making to flee the room. “And let us know what Tyrest has to say!”

“We’ll leave it up to your discretion how to word your inquiry,” Drift said, quick on Rodimus’ heels. “As long as it allows for a conclusive answer.”

Ratchet didn’t bother even standing up. “So. About those questions?”

Ultra Magnus didn’t bother sitting. Instead he glowered at Ratchet and his departed fellow officers, possibly mentally writing them both up for dumping this responsibility on the medic. Ratchet found he didn’t really mind. Rodimus wouldn’t be able to recount the story without emotional outbursts, and Drift’s priority was helping the captain. They were going down to the lower levels to race, or maybe to spar. Drift would probably meditate afterwards, if he wasn’t injured, and Ratchet made a note to himself to go look for him, if he didn’t seek Ratchet out. They weren’t going to leave this hanging between them. 

“I still do not have a clear picture of everything that has transpired,” Ultra Magnus finally said. “Recount it, and I will ask questions afterward.”

“Alright then. I’ll go chronologically from just before our departure, though keep in mind I only found out what happened afterwards.” 

It was a refreshing change, being able to get all the way through a story without any interruptions whatsoever. Ultra Magnus really did save his questions, allowing Ratchet to provide several answers simply by stating everything that he knew.

“…and once we agreed Drift should approach you, I fell out of the loop,” Ratchet wrapped up. “Obviously something he said was suspicious enough that we all wound up here, and you know how that went.”

“He began asking questions about specific prisons and specific Decepticons, which I judged too complicated a topic for where we were in his studies. I said as much, but he continually attempted to return to the topic.” Ultra Magnus’s hands twitched. “I suppose all this means he is not interested in improving his command skills,” the much larger mech managed to sound somewhat disappointed at that.

“Honestly? I think he is,” Ratchet said. “He had an ulterior motive for bringing the lessons up in the first place and an agenda when it came to which topics he wanted to prioritize, but he takes his duties very seriously. He’d probably be grateful if you offered to continue instructing him.” Drift might hate him for that, but Ratchet knew it would mean a lot to him for Ultra Magnus to reach out instead of treating him like a criminal after his deception. “He’s a good mech, and he wants to be a good officer.”

Ultra Magnus frowned, but it looked like a thoughtful frown. “Tell me about the measures keeping the prisoner secure,” he changed the subject.

“There are several redundancies, ensuring that if one measure fails, others will keep him contained,” Ratchet explained. “He’s restrained in a slow cell, which can be readily ejected from the ship, and is currently in long-term medical stasis to boot.”

Ultra Magnus crossed his arms over his expansive chest, frowning. Ratchet sat quietly while he thought. “Thank you, Ratchet. I have a message to write. Dismissed.”

“Good luck,” Ratchet said as he headed for the door. “And thank you.”

Magnus just waved one hand in acknowledgement.

Ratchet paused in the hallway after the door shut between them. That… had gone, on the whole, better than he’d expected. There’d been some yelling, some name calling, but no punches (or furniture) thrown. As far as working relationships went, they’d come through intact. It was a shame Ultra Magnus hadn’t been able to close the matter though, one way or the other. Ratchet was more than ready to be  _ done  _ dealing with Overlord, and while he still didn’t want killing him to be Rodimus’ decision, he was beginning to think Drift had been right about looking for another solution ultimately being futile.

Not a waste of time, though. If they were going to resort to killing, it would be a carefully considered decision.

With a sigh, Ratchet pushed himself away from the wall and headed back to the medbay. If he didn’t find something else to do he’d just sit around running his processor in circles, and it was too soon to go looking for Drift. 

Rung and Ambulon were talking while the psychiatrist got himself checked over on the medberth furthest from the door when he arrived. Rung’s backpack scooter was sitting on the berth next to him.

“Don’t mind me,” Ratchet said, waving as they both looked over at him. “I’ll be in back for a bit.”

“Everything alright?” Rung asked curiously.

“You’re the one on a medical berth,” Ratchet joked. “Yes, everything’s fine. I just need to be doing something more productive than wandering the halls.”

“We need a new batch of pain meds programmed,” Ambulon suggested.

“Sounds good.” Sounded perfect, in fact. Ratchet grabbed a bin to start hunting down spent chips. “Carry on.”

_ How _ did the things keep getting scattered all over the place!? Ratchet found them in the usual places — on shelves, in drawers, mixed in with tools, collected in specimen jars, and under medberths — but he also found them in places they had no business being. Like inside one of the large system scanners. He wouldn’t have even noticed it if he hadn’t moved the scanner to get at a dataslug he’d seen lurking beneath it and heard the thing rattling around. And of course, now that he knew about it, he had to open the dumb thing up to retrieve it. The dataslug he could write off easily enough, but there was a chance it could damage the scanner if he just left it where it was.

After one last sweep for any stragglers, Ratchet took the chips into the office and started sorting and reloading them. He left the door open for once, both so he could hear the soothing, indistinct sounds of Ambulon working and continuing to talk to Rung (until he eventually left), but also to make it easy to get his attention if necessary. If Drift and Rodimus did manage to ding themselves up, they’d be coming here sooner or later

The first person who came looking for him wasn’t Drift or Rodimus, though.

“He~y,” Ratchet heard Brainstorm drawl as the door opened with what sounded like a giggle, “where’s Ratchet? I’ve got something to show him!”

“Ratchet’s off-duty,” Ambulon said briskly. “I’m the medic on duty; if you have a problem, you can talk to me.”

“I don’t have a  _ problem,” _ Brainstorm crowed cheerfully. “I’ve got a  _ present _ for him!”

A present? From Brainstorm? Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted it, but he got up anyway and peered out into the main medbay. “Has this present been cleared by security?”

Brainstorm looked over and his already excited expression was lit by a sparkle of happiness in his optics. He put his hand over his spark, knocking himself in the chest with his briefcase in the process. “You  _ wound _ me, Ratchet. Here I am, having  _ slaved away _ to make you a  _ gift _ and you’re insinuating that I’d engage in  _ sabotage.” _

“Not deliberately,” Ratchet said, arching a brow ridge at the manic scientist. “But given several chairs died an untimely death the last time I saw you, which ended in you being hauled off to the brig, you can’t say it isn’t a fair question.”

“Hehe… funny you should mention that…” Brainstorm reached into his subspace and pulled out a crate full of miniature blue helicopters. “They’re for you!”

“Oh no.” Ratchet hid his face in his hands. “Why?”

“They’re for curing nanocon infections! Don’t worry. I worked out the bugs in their AIs and they won’t attack random furniture anymore.” 

“They’re really safe?” He supposed they must be, if Brainstorm was out of the brig and handing them over as a medical device. Ratchet let his hands drop and looked at the buzzing crate dubiously. “How am I supposed to control them?”

“I mean if you  _ need _ to, there’s a remote control in there with their recharging station, but they’re, um, kind of smart. Sort of smart. They don’t really have any  _ reasoning _ capability, but they’re very good at following their directives! They’ll go after any nanocons in the vicinity all on their own. Won’t you? Yes you will!” One of the tiny helicopters buzzed a little louder, nosing the side of the crate with what looked like affection.

“And when there  _ aren’t  _ nanocons in the vicinity?” 

“I deleted their capacity for boredom, so they should just stay jacked into their recharging station,” Brainstorm explained, seeing absolutely no problem with what he was saying. Why would anyone program a drone that could feel bored to begin with? “If they don’t, I did include some toys for them! And they like having their rotors scritched!”

Ambulon snorted.

“Of course they do,” Ratchet sighed. He could already see First Aid squealing happily over the things, insisting they be let out to exercise and play like… like pets!  _ Pests  _ was more like it, but having something on hand that could actually deal with nanocons — preventatively, even! — was worth putting up with a lot. “Fine. Hand them over and I’ll find a place for them.”

“Alright, guys,” Brainstorm told the little Whirl-bots, to much disappointed buzzing. “I know. I’m going to miss you, too, but Ratchet’s going to take good care of you! Be good!”

The crate was heavier than expected, and the helicopters were making squealing, almost crying sounds, as it was handed over. Lovely. “How big is the recharging station?” Ambulon asked, giving Ratchet plenty of room as he brought them over to an empty workbench.

“I miniaturized it for transport,” Brainstorm said gleefully. “I should go, let you guys bond. Bye!” He literally flitted out the door, which chortled in amusement.

“Didn’t really answer my question,” Ambulon complained, and Ratchet shrugged.

“We’ll just have to set it out in an open space and see how much room it takes up when it un-miniaturizes,” he said, frowning at the crate. “Assuming we can figure out how to make it do that.” Brainstorm hadn’t exactly left much in the way of instructions.

“Should we open it?” Ambulon (understandably) sounded rather dubious about the prospect of letting the helicopters out of their confinement.

Ratchet didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Maybe we should let First Aid deal with them,” he finally said.

“Maybe…” Ambulon looked like he agreed with the sentiment. “But if they really do have rudimentary emotional programming, we probably don’t want him to be the  _ only _ one they’ll respond to,” he said, cringing.

“Probably not.” Resigning himself to whatever chaos ensued, Ratchet reached for the latch holding the crate shut. “Alright, little guys,” he said, feeling completely ridiculous, “I’m going to let you out now. Stay in this room, got it?”

“Do they understand verbal commands?”

“I have no idea. Ready?” The Whirl-bots buzzed happily. Ratchet opened their cage. “There you go!”

They all rose out of the box like a swarm of overlarge Earth hornets. Ambulon flinched, but Ratchet didn’t see any tiny weapons fire. They  _ have _ weapons, he recalled one of Brainstorm’s rants, but they  _ aren’t _ weapons. 

Nor, Ratchet realized once the swarm had all escaped, were they acting aggressively. They’d split off into smaller clumps — attack groups — and were investigating different things. A few bumped affectionately against the two medics, whining piteously, while others checked out the medbay. One group hovered and chittered raucously while one of their number bumped into a microwelder, slowly nudging it toward the edge of the counter. Another group was working together to wheel a tool cart across the room.

“Don’t knock things on the floor,” Ratchet said, brushing the helicopter trying to land on his shoulder aside gently. Another took its place, and instead of trying to shoo it away, Ratchet rolled his optics and patted the thing once its rotors stopped  _ whirring  _ so fast. “Hi.”

The thing vibrated on its skids and several groups abandoned whatever they’d found to come and bump at his hand, trying to entice him to pet them too, while the one defended its spot on Ratchet’s shoulder jealously. Ambulon quickly backed away, leaving Ratchet to fend for himself. He didn’t have enough hands! “Hi— yes, hello to you too. No, I can’t pet you if— ow! Watch the blades! Okay yes, fine, land on me, fantastic.” They’d taken him raising his arms as an invitation to use them as a landing strip, and very quickly every available inch of level plating had a tiny blue helicopter perched on it. “Great. Now I can’t move.”

“I’ll see about getting their recharge station set up,” Ambulon said, edging around Ratchet with the box. “You keep them entertained.”

“At least that seems easy enough to do.” Ratchet turned his head (slowly, to avoid dislodging the Whirl-bot wobbling on his helm crest) to look at the one on his shoulder that had started the whole mess. “You realize I can’t pet all of you at once, right?” It buzzed at him, and several more buzzed in unison. Were they  _ hive minded?  _ It would be a useful feature for them in carrying out their prime directive, but Ratchet still felt the urge to designate a “leader” to talk to. 

Before anything else could happen, the medbay door chimed to announce a new arrival. Ratchet looked up in alarm, nearly unseating a few of the Whirl-bots. “Stay,” he said quickly, hoping they wouldn’t swarm and terrify their next patient.

“Should I be jealous?” Drift sounded more amused than any flavor of worried.

Rodimus, supporting Drift while they walked, cackled. “Sure looks like it!”

Of course. “Your timing is impeccable,” Ratchet drawled, not-flapping his arms to encourage the Whirl-bots to take off. “Come on, fly, guys! I need my arms back.”

The helicopters took off with a flurry of tiny rotors, scuttling through the air to go cause trouble in the far corners of the medbay.

“We can come back if you’re busy,” Drift offered.

“No we can’t,” the captain corrected, hauling the white speedster to the nearest berth. “I’m not carrying you around until they get Brainstorm’s drones under control. Dippy, here,” he looked at Ratchet while Drift got comfortable, “tried to drift around an un-driftable corner.”

“It’s not un-driftable,  _ Firebug. _ Don’t let him escape,” Drift waved at Rodimus. “He needs his brake lines replaced.”

“Tattletale!”

“Don’t worry,” Ratchet assured Rodimus, hauling him over to a berth of his own, “I wouldn’t have let you leave without a checkup anyway.” He patted the captain’s shoulder. “But you will have to wait long enough for us to get  _ our  _ drones under control.”

“Really? Could’ve sworn they were Brainstorm’s.”

“Not anymore.” Alas. Ratchet’s helm jerked up at the sound of something hitting the floor. “Hey, what did I say about knocking things over?”

Five drones, which had been chortling over the fallen microwelder, zipped to hide under one of the medberths.

Drift laughed. “As long as they’re not chewing on the scenery?”

“He assured us they don’t do that anymore,” Ratchet said, giving the misbehaving drones a disappointed  _ tsk tsk  _ before joining Ambulon beside the shrunken recharge unit. “Hmm. Assuming each of these slots is meant to be the size of a Whirl-bot, it’ll probably fit on the wall over there when it’s full size.”

“When it’s full size being the key,” Ambulon muttered, scrutinizing it from every angle. “Do you see a switch anywhere? Because I don’t.”

Ratchet didn’t see a switch either. All he saw was a small, clear box full of what had to be the promised toys. 

He was contemplating if he should open it — would the Whirl-bots be more or less difficult to corral if they had their real toys? — when Ambulon jumped back with a exclamation of alarm. 

_ Zzziirrom! Shinkt! _

The two speedsters also jumped up and drew weapons, pointing them at the suddenly full-sized recharge unit.

“…I guess it was on a timer,” Ratchet said warily when nothing else happened. 

“Yeesh. Warn a mech next time,” Rodimus complained, lowering his blaster. 

“Tell that to Brainstorm. He didn’t bother warning us, either.” Ratchet started to reach for the thing to move it over to the wall, but Ambulon got there first.

“I’ll hold it, you hook it up?” he suggested.

“Sure.”

_ Fortunately, _ the thing proved easy to install. They maneuvered it into place and plugged it into the nearest power outlet. It looked just like a tall shelf. As soon as the indicator lights on the platforms lit up, several Whirl-bots came over to investigate it and, recognizing it, settled onto the shelves. One settled too far from the power socket and had to hop forward on its skids before reaching out with something that looked far too much like a proboscis to plug itself in.

“Have a nice nap,” Ratchet told them, nudging another into place. Ambulon stared at him, and he shrugged. “Emotional programming, right?” 

“Of course.”

Now with the medbay buzzing with far fewer Whirl-bots, the two medics could turn their attention to their two patients. “I’ll take one, you take the other?” Ratchet said, only now realizing that Drift’s presence wasn’t bothering Ambulon anywhere near as much as it had in the past, even with the new red optics.

“As long as I get the captain,” Ambulon responded, proving he wasn’t totally comfortable.

Drift smiled as Ratchet approached, proudly holding one of the Whirl-bots and gently stroking its tail. “So why are these things your problem now?”

“Because Brainstorm made them to hunt and destroy nanocons. Who knows what else they’ll turn out to be able to do, but that’s their main purpose, so they belong to us now.”

“That was nice of him.” Laughter skittered through Drift’s EM field.

“I suppose, though they’re going to take some getting used to.” Ratchet held out his hand for the Whirl-bot. “Come on, let’s put you somewhere safe and harmless.”

The helicopter went willingly enough, with a buzz of its rotors. Carrying the thing across the room to add it to the growing collection of recharging drones, Ratchet wondered why Brainstorm had made them this size, instead of just making a bunch of nano-scale drones to combat the nanocons. Maybe there was no reason, just Brainstorm being Brainstorm, but perhaps they’d probably be easier to keep track of and repair than a bunch of nano-scale bots.

He helped that one settle onto its shelf close enough to reach out with its proboscis-like power cord and plug itself in. It buzzed again, then went quiet.

“Glad you haven’t accumulated any more,” he said when he returned to Drift’s berth. “Now, what’s this about un-driftable corners?”

“It’s not un-driftable,” Drift insisted, holding out his leg. The armor had been crushed and torn, maybe down to the strut, but he didn’t look like he was bleeding any fluids. “I’ve done it before. Firebug,” he raised his voice to catch Rodimus’ attention, “is just jealous I’m more agile than he is.”

“Pfft!” the captain called back. “What’s there to be jealous of?”

“Right now all there is to be jealous of is mangled armor,” Ratchet said, counting up how many individual pieces of plating were compromised. “Not that trashed brake lines are anything to be proud of.”

“My brakes are—  _ ow!” _ Rodimus turned an ineffective glare on Ambulon, who ignored him. “Warn a mech!”

Ambulon pulled the snapped brake line out of the red speedster’s frame. “What were you saying about your brakes, Captain?” he asked flatly. Rodimus grumbled. “Settle down or I’ll cuff you to the berth.”

“Kinky!” Drift heckled, before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to engage Ambulon. “Sorry.”

Ambulon looked up, then back down. “You’re fine. Just stay over there.”

“Are you kidding?” Drift said tentatively. “If I try and go anywhere, Ratchet’ll cuff  _ me _ to the berth.”

“Kinky.”

Ratchet’s engine nearly stalled. Rung was a fragging  _ miracle worker.  _ “I’m going to need to remove all this,” he said when he’d recovered from his surprise. “Some pieces I might be able to hammer back into shape, but others will need to be replaced.”

“Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere,” Drift leaned back and got comfortable on the berth. “It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

“Ow! Sadist!”

“You’d think the captain never had, listening to him right now.” Ratchet reached for his tools. “Alright. Let’s get you fixed up. There might be some pain when the pressure comes off compressed lines, but I’ll be as careful as possible.” Unlike Ambulon was being, though Ratchet knew he wasn’t really hurting Rodimus unnecessarily.  _ “You two manage to calm down successfully?”  _ he asked, using comms to avoid being overheard as he started to work the first twisted panel loose.

“I don’t know what Firebug’s complaining about. Ambulon’s being perfectly gentle.” Drift grinned as Rodimus glowered at him.  _ “Yeah,” _ he answered Ratchet more seriously.  _ “We’re fine. How about you? Manage to talk Ultra Magnus out of replacing us with a pair of foam board cutouts?” _

_“He didn’t give me any indication he was planning something like that. I think he’s still processing everything; after getting all the details and clarifying a few points, he just sent me away.”_ If Ratchet had to guess, Ultra Magnus was probably reviewing all their decisions and trying to determine where they should have acted differently so he could more properly chastise them. _“It’s a lot to take in, and it took me more than a cycle to work past_ _‘why is Overlord even on this ship?!’ and start dealing with the reality of the situation.”_

_ “Here’s hoping.” _ Drift winced as the next armor panel was removed, but didn’t complain.  _ “And us? Are we okay?” _

_ “I am if you are,”  _ Ratchet said, massaging the spasms out of a no-longer-crushed cable.  _ “Respectfully disagreeing still isn’t my first choice, but since neither of us have changed our stances on the matter…”  _

_ “I prefer respectfully disagreeing over fighting about it,” _ Drift said candidly. “That feels good.”

“Feeling good is a good sign — means you didn’t get any tears in there along with the compression.” Those would have both hurt, and been a hassle to patch.  _ “I don’t want to fight about it either. Anyway it would be pretty stupid to get mad at you for stating your position to Ultra Magnus when he needs to know what’s on the table.” _

Drift smiled. “You know what else would feel good?” he flirted.  _ “You’re the best.” _

_ “Pfft. Hardly.”  _ Ratchet gave Drift a quick grin before going after the next shredded piece of armor. “I can think of plenty of other things that would feel good. Which did you have in mind?”

“We~ll, I still owe you something kinky,” Drift drawled. He ignored the captain’s shout of “TMI!” and shifted to give Ratchet better access to the other side of his leg. So far, Ratchet wasn’t seeing any serious damage, just the painful and embarrassing results of what had probably been a painful and embarrassing crash. “And maybe I can touch up your paint in the process.”

“Why? Is it looking that bad? Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it,” Ratchet added, because he would. 

“Not especially. You’re beautiful,” Drift said, ignoring both Rodimus’ overly dramatic hacking sounds and the way Ambulon was studiously ignoring their conversation. “I just want the excuse to put my hands on you.”

Ratchet wasn’t going to complain about that. “We can work out the details once I’m done here then,” he said, preferring to skip any further comments from the peanut gallery and to avoid imposing their negotiations on Ambulon. “Right now you wouldn’t be able to walk out of here on your own.”

“Just because I  _ shouldn’t _ walk out of here, doesn’t mean I’m not  _ able,” _ Drift teased, going along with the change of subject. 

“Hmm. And you came hobbling in here draped all over Rodimus because…?” 

“If he wasn’t carrying me, he’d have run off before getting his brakes checked.” Drift grinned, unrepentantly, red optics sparkling.

“I hate you,” Rodimus grumbled.

“If you had, you would have crashed into the nearest wall the next time you transformed,” Ambulon informed him. “Hold still.”

“I am holding still!” 

Ratchet snorted, not even having to look to know that for the lie it was. “Someone isn’t a very good patient.”

“Racing frames rarely are,” Drift said smugly, laying back and pointedly demonstrating how good he was being by comparison.

Drift’s cooperation made a big difference in how long it took to complete his repair. Replacing brake lines should have gone much faster than removing, fixing, and reinstalling so much torn armor, but it was Ratchet who finished first, making him the lucky medic to be surprised by the tool drawer rattling as he drew near it. Opening it cautiously revealed a pair of Whirl-bots, one flailing in the tangled cord of a power drill while the other buzzed around trying to free it.

Ratchet stepped in and got them both out of the drawer before the loose one decided to cut the cord into pieces  _ (not  _ because he was taking pity on the tangled one and its pathetic, plaintive beeps). “Why don’t you go recharge with the others?” he told them, making sure the drawer was firmly closed.

One of them zipped off to join the rest of its hive at the recharge unit, but the other buzzed around watching what was going on and getting in the way.

“How do you think Whirl will react to them when he sees them?”

“I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to be here when it happens.” Ratchet offered a hand to Drift to help him up. “In any case, neither of us need to be here now, and I believe you had some ideas what we could be doing instead.”

“I did.” Drift didn’t go into details. He carefully put his weight on his leg and sighed in satisfaction when it held. “Your berth? I don’t think I should be straining my leg,” he teased. “It’s just been repaired.”

“As your medic, I agree. In fact,” Ratchet grinned and, telegraphing his movements, swept Drift up into his arms. “Why don’t I just carry you there?”

Drift shrieked playfully, giggling, and limbs and swords flailed as he balanced himself to cling to Ratchet’s shoulders. “Oh, okay,” the speedster laughed, getting comfortable. “But only because you’re a fusspot.” And he gently bit Ratchet’s shoulder.

Ambulon and Rodimus were staring at them. The captain had a look of scandalous delight on his faceplate while Ambulon just looked confused.

“Don’t mind us,” Ratchet said, unable to keep the smile off his face. “We’ll be out of your way in a moment.” 

The stares, and one of the Whirl-bots, followed them as Ratchet carried Drift out of the medbay until the door closed behind them.

.

.

.

Ratchet half expected to be mobbed by a swarm of tiny helicopters when he next reported for his shift. He was not disappointed. He  _ knew _ First Aid wouldn’t have left them on their shelves!

“Getting along with them then, are you?” he asked, stopping only a few steps in to avoid running into any of them. They respected the boundary between the medbay and the rest of the ship, but the nanoklik he crossed the threshold they were all over him.

“Bed!” First Aid called. “Come on, little guys, it’s time for bed,” and the swarm left Ratchet to perch on their recharge unit. Only about half of them actually plugged themselves in, but the air was clear of buzzing rotors. “Oh yes,” First Aid enthused in answer to Ratchet’s question. “We’re getting along fantastically. They’re so  _ adorable!” _

“Don’t see what so great about them,” Whirl grumped from where he was crouched next to the shelves, locked in a staring contest with one of his little clones.

“I think the appeal is their size and how interactive they are,” Ratchet said. “Though I could do with a little less of the latter when I’m trying to work.”

“Brainstorm didn’t tell you they’re already trained to return to their recharge unit on command?” First Aid practically floated over to a berth he’d obviously been using to read on, because there was a stack of datapads laid out on it. “They have a couple of basic commands they recognize.”

“In other words, they’re dumb,” Whirl cackled gleefully, not breaking optic contact with his current nemesis. 

“They kind of are,” First Aid acknowledged, cleaning up his datapads. “But useful!”

“Useful how? All I’ve seen them do is buzz around and get stuck in things.” Dumb was right; the things could  _ shrink,  _ yet they never seemed to remember that when they got tangled up in something. “And no, Brainstorm didn’t exactly leave much in the way of instructions. They seemed to listen to me about half the time — or only half of them would listen to me at a time.”

“Well there’s a remote control, if they get too bad,” First Aid waved to the small black box sitting on one of the shelves. “They don’t seem to understand  _ speech, _ just a few words, like ‘bed’ for going back to the recharge unit. For just about everything else they’re relying on a combination of emotional programming and trial and error. So they can tell you’re upset, but not why. They run possible reactions through their little hive minds and half of them do one thing, the other half the other, and as a unit observe which action resulted in you remaining upset, or if an action elicited a positive response.”

“Meaning, they’ll become less of a nuisance over time.” Kind of like the real Whirl, Ratchet found himself thinking. Oh, the rotary was still a complete pain in the aft sometimes, but he wasn’t the bane of all existence he’d been at the start of the voyage. “I did notice once they go to bed they tend to stay there, even if they don’t plug in.”

“Ambulon said Brainstorm made it so they wouldn’t get bored.” It wasn’t a question, but Ratchet nodded anyway. “Then it’s probably that, once there, it doesn’t occur to them to do anything else until they’re disturbed.”

“Too bad for you they’re not just dumb, they’re curious.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to survive,” Ratchet said, shaking his head at Whirl before asking First Aid, “How long have they been at that?”

“Four joors or so.” First Aid was far too amused by them. “Neither of them can blink, so I’m not sure how one of them is supposed to win.”

“I’m not losing to a knockoff!”

“Of course not.” First Aid giggled. “So I guess there’s your pass-on, Ratchet.”

“You’re not leaving me here!”

“It’s your choice to stay,” First Aid said sweetly.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Ratchet looked pointedly at the collection of datapads. “You’re not leaving that there, are you?” 

“Nope! But I’d like to finish up before I clean up, if that’s not a problem?”

“Seeing as we’re swimming in patients…” Ratchet chuckled. Anyone with minor issues was probably being scared off by the Whirl-bots. “Stay as long as you want.”

“Thanks.” First Aid circled around to stroke Whirl’s shoulder, then hoisted himself back up onto the medberth to continue reading.

Lacking much else to do, Ratchet decided to finish up copying the needed pain relief programs onto the dataslugs while he did a little reading of his own. There hadn’t been anything he didn’t already know about Cybercrosis in the materials he’d gone through so far, but he wanted to take a look at some of the information on technopathogens that caused degenerative shutdown. Tailgate showed no sign of an infectious disease, but maybe there was something in those studies that could help…

There was a clock on his desk.

Not recognizing it, Ratchet picked it up and looked it over. It was well made, even though the time it was currently displaying was wrong. “Is this yours?” he asked, calling over to First Aid.

“Yep!” First Aid sang back, while Whirl broke his staring contest to glare at Ratchet. “I already have one in my quarters, so that one’s for our office.”

“How do I reset it? The time’s off,” Ratchet said, looking at Whirl. “What?”

“Hold both buttons until the display blinks, then use them to cycle through the time until it’s right.”

“Or the docbot can just smash it,” Whirl sing-songed nastily.  _ “That’d _ show it who’s boss.”

“He’s not going to smash it,” First Aid retorted patiently, in the tone of someone who’d had this discussion before. 

“I don’t need to show it who’s boss, I just need it to be accurate,” Ratchet said, uninterested in indulging whatever vendetta Whirl had with the thing. Fortunately resetting it was easy, and he was able to put it back on the desk with a satisfied nod. 

Whirl glared at him a klik longer, then, staring contest won by a clock, went to go poke First Aid.

Eventually the two of them left, putting away all the datapads so the berth was clear in case Ratchet needed it. Whirl “accidentally” bumped into a rolling infuser unit on his way out, disturbing the mini-Whirls from their recharge unit. Ratchet shut the door to the office to keep them from getting inside, then set about corralling them all.

It was a little bit odd, not having Blueray around again. For all First Aid claimed the Whirl-bots were helpful, Ratchet would have preferred the Decepticon. “You’d better prove you can behave yourselves so things can get back to normal around here,” he said to one of the tiny helicopters. It hovered closer, bumping one of its skids against the edge of his chevron. “And don’t think you can charm your way into my good graces! I’m not as easy to win over as First Aid.”

“You do talk to them almost as much as he does though,” a dry voice said behind him.

“Must be a sign of my processor going in my old age,” Ratchet said, turning to face Ambulon. “Or maybe just that I’ve been on this ship too long. Is something wrong?”

“Just restocking the first aid kit for the lob ball court.” Ambulon held up the nearly empty box in his hand. “It’s been really useful so far.”

“So I see.” Ratchet shooed the Whirl-bot toward the recharge unit. “Bed,” he told it, happy to see it zip over and land without detouring. “Make sure none of them sneak in.”

“I think I can manage that. Bed,” Ambulon tried when one of them came over to investigate the roll of adhesive patching material he was pulling out of their supplies closet. Obediently, the little drone flew to the unit. This one took its time choosing its shelf, but landed without incident, and hopped on its skids until it was watching Ambulon from its new perch. “Talking to them seems to have served First Aid well,” he said with amusement.

“And yet, you mock me for it,” Ratchet teased. “Though speaking of talking doing people good… I was glad to see things weren’t as tense between you and Drift last cycle.”

“If you tell Rung I admitted it, I’ll eviscerate you, but talking to him helped,” Ambulon said, pulling more supplies out of the cabinet and stashing them in the first aid kit.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” No one admitted that talking to Rung helped, Ratchet included. Rung probably knew anyway, the insightful little pest. 

“Decepticon interfacing politics were brutal,” Ambulon went on, studiously pretending he was talking to thin air, or the Whirl-bots, and not to Ratchet, “and Deadlock wasn’t the worst, but I fixated on him because he was the first to approach me. I didn’t know what was going on, and all I had to put his behavior in context was Shockwave.” The other medic shuddered. “It wasn’t good, it wasn’t right, but he wasn’t the one who actually hurt me.”

That was more than Ratchet had expected him to share. It made a lot of sense. “I’m sorry you were hurt at all.”

“I wouldn’t exist without the Combiner program,” Ambulon said philosophically. “And I survived it; a lot of others didn’t. I’ll deal.”

“And maybe begin to heal?” Ratchet took a step forward, then hesitated. He wanted to show his support, maybe offer a hug, but didn’t know if it would be welcome. “Anyway. I just want you to know I’m happy for you and proud of you.”

Ambulon looked up, and sighed. “I recognize that look. Go ahead, get it out of your system.”

Ratchet laughed. “That obvious, was I?” 

“You’re  _ slightly _ more subtle than First Aid,” Ambulon said scathingly.

“Ouch.” Still smiling, Ratchet went ahead and hugged him. Ambulon relaxed into it surprisingly quickly, even hugging Ratchet back a bit. This close, Ratchet could feel in his EM field how relieved and even yearning the other medic was for the contact. “But I suppose I deserved that.”

“Just a little.” When Ratchet pulled back, he saw the smallest hint of a smile on Ambulon’s face. “It still catches me off guard when he does or allows things that wouldn’t have been acceptable — Drift, I mean.”

“Like how he let me pick him up?” Ratchet guessed.

“Yeah.” Flicking his armor, like Ratchet’s touch was lingering on his nerve circuits, Ambulon turned back to filling the first aid kit, evicting a tiny helicopter that had taken up residence in the cabinet while they weren’t paying attention. “Or falling asleep in the medbay without being sedated. Or decorating your quarters. Or how you’re always touching him.”

“Really? He’s the one who wanted all the touching,” Ratchet said, thinking back on how Drift had been the one to initiate almost all casual contact in the beginning. “Guess it’s just become a habit.”

“If he’d been like that at the MASH, Glit probably would have liked him,” Ambulon said quietly. “He and Flatline had a… a touching thing occasionally. But even seeing it now, I can’t imagine Deadlock doing it.”

“Maybe that’s part of why he does it now,” Ratchet said, leaving it as a suggestion despite knowing for certain that it was a significant factor. “I’m not trying to pretend that Deadlock never existed, or that he was secretly a really nice mech, but I hope it keeps getting easier to see Drift as he is now in addition to,” not instead of, “who he was.”

Ambulon shrugged. “Rung and I are working on it.”

“Even though he’s no help whatsoever.”

“Right.”

Ratchet moved on to other things while Ambulon finished gathering the things he’d come for. He’d just started a tune-up on one of the portable scanners when—

_ “Yellow alert,” _ the captain’s announcement was accompanied by the flashing yellow lights that were the ship’s preliminary alert status.  _ “Wakey, wakey everyone. We might have an issue soon and I don’t want anyone caught in their berths.” _

So much for a relatively peaceful journey. Yellow didn’t necessarily mean there was an imminent problem, it could go away without anything happening… but Ratchet wouldn’t bet on it.

“So much for taking this back to the court this cycle,” Ambulon sighed and closed up the first aid kit.

“I wonder what’s wrong now,” Ratchet said, switching gears to something he could put down easily if he needed to. It was always hard to wait, not knowing what was going on or what to prepare for. Across the ship, he knew, mechs would be doing the same thing. Waking themselves up to wait, tensely, for things to either resolve or for the command to get to their action stations. It was an unfortunately familiar routine for most of them, waiting for the unknown to reveal itself and bite them. 

The door to the medbay slid open and a bleary First Aid came trotting through. “Hey. Any word yet?”

“Nope. Nothing.” Ratchet watched as a small cluster of Whirl-bots rose up together and went to check on First Aid. “I think they’re glad to see you.”

“Awww, they are!” First Aid cooed. “Hel~lo! Yes, such beautiful little mechanisms you are. Here,” he held out his hand and one landed on it immediately. He shooed away a second. “One at a time, guys. You’ll get your turns. Yes, scritches time,” and, putting words to action, he scratched the drone’s rotors as they slowed enough not to take off his fingers. “Just for klik. Everyone needs a turn.”

“How long before he names all of them?” Ratchet whispered to Ambulon.

Ambulon shrugged.

“I’m not going to name all of them,” First Aid said, shooing the one out of his hands so another could take its place. How he’d even heard the question above the noise of all those rotors, Ratchet couldn’t begin to guess. “There’d be no point. They’re a hive, not individuals.”

“Bob’s part of a swarm.” Sort of; a swarm that wasn’t here, and one which he’d arguably never been a proper member of. “He has a name.”

“Bob is not  _ currently _ part of a swarm,” First Aid corrected, changing helicopters again. “Separated from it, he operates as an individual, self-contained. If we pulled this little guy,” he held up the drone in demonstration, “away from its swarm, it’d drain its batteries trying to contact the others, instead of being adorable. And if you think they’re dumb  _ now _ …”

“Bob won’t be adorable either, chasing them around the next time he’s in here,” Ambulon said. “He’ll think they’re toys.”

“Let’s deal with that disaster when it happens.” They had another disaster to deal with now. Maybe. Assuming it  _ wasn’t _ a false alarm.

The next call didn’t come over the PA, but rather directly to Ratchet’s commsuite.  _ “Hey, Ratch, need you to come join us on the bridge,”  _ Rodimus said. He sounded tense.

_ “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”  _ Ratchet looked over at the others, who were too busy with the Whirl-bots to have even noticed he’d gotten a call. “Rodimus just summoned me to the bridge,” he told them. “Still no idea what’s going on.”

“We’ll hold down the fort,” First Aid promised. “Alright, guys, time for bed. Yes, all of you. Bed…”

First Aid could  _ have _ the little menaces as far as Ratchet was concerned. 

A couple people asked him what was going on, but for the most part the halls were clear of mechs. Everyone was hunkered down for the emergency.

He met Drift on his way to the bridge. He shook his head, preemptively answering the question Ratchet had been about to ask. They touched hands briefly, then proceeded through the door. 

To Ratchet’s surprise, Ultra Magnus wasn’t there, just Rodimus, Blaster, and Red Alert, all huddled around the bridge’s communications hub.

Rodimus looked up as they approached. “Ultra Magnus is gone,” he said without preamble. “About a joor ago he took the  _ Leading Light _ from shuttle bay 3 and took off.” The captain’s optics turned flinty. “We’re still backtracking his movements and deciphering his communications, but right now it looks like the last thing he did was contact Chief Justice Tyrest.”

“Tyrest?” Ratchet felt the surprise in Drift’s field before he clamped down on it. “Do we have a copy of the transmission?”

“Decrypting it now,” Blaster said briskly, most of his attention on the screen in front of him.

Ratchet exchanged a nervous glance with Rodimus.  _ They  _ knew what Ultra Magnus’ message had been about, but not the specifics of what he’d said. Were Blaster and Red Alert about to find out about Overlord? Or find out again, in Red Alert’s case. The mech’s recent obsession with paranormal activity was ridiculous, but it had kept him from digging any further after Rung reassured him everything was under control. Ratchet knew he was more than half-convinced he’d hallucinated Overlord at this point, but that would change very quickly with any external confirmation of his presence on the ship. 

“I keep telling you, Ultra Magnus was  _ possessed!” _ Red Alert hissed, jabbing his finger at the screen, only for his hand to be batted out of the way by Blaster. “I am  _ intimately _ aware of how each and every one of you ingrates stomp around this ship, and  _ that,” _ he pointed again, despite Blaster’s protest, “was not Ultra Magnus.”

“Where and when did he get possessed?” Drift asked in all seriousness, and Ratchet scoffed.

“It  _ can’t  _ be possession,” he insisted.

_ “It is so!” _ Red Alert screeched.

“In his quarters, apparently,” Rodimus answered, shaking his head to clear his audios. “Right before heading to the shuttle bay.”

“I’d like to see the footage, right before and right after his possession.” Drift held up a hand to forestall another screech from the security director. He gave Red a brief smile, the vacant, hippy smile he used when he knew he was playing up his spirituality to potentially absurd levels. “I might see something of the possessing entity you can’t.”

“Whatever,” Blaster grumbled. “You can go use one of the other screens and leave me alone to work while you do it.”

“I’ll pull it up here,” Red Alert said, moving to another monitor. Drift and Ratchet both followed, though Rodimus stayed just over Blaster’s shoulder. “This is him returning to his quarters from the bridge after sending his message,” one security feed filled the left side of the screen, while another came up on the right, “and here’s what  _ looks like him  _ leaving his quarters several joors later, but it’s not him! There’s something very wrong!”

Ratchet didn’t need the quick jab Drift gave him with his elbow to know a sarcastic comment wouldn’t be helpful, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Even if something  _ is  _ wrong, it’s not possession.”

Red Alert whirled on him.  _ “ _ That’s what you’d say if  **_you_ ** _ were posses~FzzT!” _

Drift moved between them and held out his hands placatingly. Ratchet couldn’t hear what he was saying — too busy rebooting his audios — but was  _ very _ relieved when Red Alert shot him a poisonous glare but subspaced his blaster.

“Anyway. Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet said, gesturing to the screen. He didn’t want to set Red off again. “You said he’s moving differently.”

“Yes. I’ll play it again.” Red Alert reset the footage, then jabbed a finger at the feed on the right. “See? Right there!”

“I see it,” Drift said, this time deadly serious, not in the dumb spiritualist voice. “And you’re right: it’s not Ultra Magnus. I don’t see any weird shadows, and auras don’t show up on recordings, but…”

“So you can’t tell what it is?” Red Alert asked, sounding perfectly reasonable and sane. For the moment, at least.

“Not from here. If it was waiting to ambush him in his quarters, it may have left a trace there.”

“We didn’t see anything when we went in earlier,” Rodimus said, “but then, we weren’t really sure what to look for.”

“I still don’t know what you’d look for in his quarters,” Ratchet said, squinting at the screen, “but I think I see what you’re talking about the way he’s moving.” The actual, physical movement of his frame as he walked, not where he was going. Ultra Magnus always had a stiff, measured gait, but there was something more rigid and precise about it as he left his room compared to when he entered it. “Something strange is going on there.”

“I keep saying that!”

“I’ll go see what I can find in Magnus’ room,” Drift said before Red could get started again. 

“I’m coming with you,” the security director insisted, leaving Ratchet to go back over to Rodimus and Blaster as they left.

“So, essentially what we have is Ultra Magnus sending a message to Chief Justice Tyrest, hiding in his room, then coming back out to steal a shuttle and leave without a word?” Ratchet recapped, hardly able to believe what he was saying.

“Essentially. And that is  _ not  _ like Magnus,” Rodimus said firmly. “Red Alert’s certain he’s possessed because of the way he was walking, but you know what has  _ me  _ convinced?”

“Oh, don’t tell me—”

“He didn’t change his duty status  _ or  _ log the shuttle out!” Rodimus started pacing. “Do you know how many regulations that violates?”

“Do  _ you?” _

“Well, no, but Ultra Magnus would, and there’s no way he’d be able to live with himself if he broke them all.”

Ratchet was  _ not _ going to concede he had a point. 

“Will you two go argue somewhere that  _ isn’t _ right behind my chair?” Blaster griped testily. “This is a book cipher — a  _ homophonic substitution cipher  _ at that — and while I’m assuming the key is the first edition of the Tyrest Accord, it’s still  _ not easy.” _

“Going somewhere else,” Rodimus said, dragging Ratchet with him to the other side of the bridge. “The timing’s just too much of a coincidence, right? He sends off that message, then  _ bam!  _ Something zaps his brain and he goes full zombie and shambles off.”

“You and Red Alert have some very interesting ideas,” Ratchet said drily. “You—”

“Zombies are a real thing!” Rodimus interrupted. “As  _ you _ should know.”

Ratchet wasn’t going to concede that point either. Besides, this didn’t look or feel like a Dead Universe incursion. “Look, as much fun as it would be to have this argument, shouldn’t we be trying to do something about getting Ultra Magnus back?”

Rodimus waved that away. “We’re already following the  _ Leading Light’s _ ion trail. If Ultra Magnus were here, he’d want us to have some idea of what we were flying into before we did it so I’m  _ trying.” _

“It’s probably safe to say we won’t be flying into anything good, otherwise Ultra Magnus would have left us some idea. Whatever the explanation for his strange behavior is,” and Ratchet was confident that explanation  _ wasn’t  _ ghosts or zombies, “it kept him from explaining himself or warning us.”

“Yeah.” The captain paced worriedly. 

_ Ping. _

Rodimus jumped as the command line lit up, and Ratchet hurriedly tuned in.

_ “—r way back to the bridge,” _ Drift was saying.  _ “I didn’t see anything in Ultra Magnus’ quarters except what you undoubtedly already have: nothing suspicious and also no sign he was planning to disappear. I’m not sure this is supernatural; the only possessing entities I know of which would have  _ **_left_ ** _ a ship full of tasty snacks behind would have also left a distinct aural trace when they took a new host.” _

_ “Fantastic. I have no idea whether that’s good or bad.”  _

“Captain? I’ve decoded the message.”

“Also potentially good and bad,” Rodimus muttered.  _ “Blaster’s got something for you to read when you get here,”  _ he told Drift and Red Alert, then looked at Ratchet. “Shall we?”

“After you.” Ratchet followed with a sense of trepidation, afraid of what they would see on the screen… 

Rodimus’ nearly explosive sigh of relief covered his much quieter one when all the message said, after a lengthy, formal salutation, was: 

> I have encountered a situation that requires an interpretation of the Accord for which there is no precedent. As your Duly Appointed Enforcer I must make a determination, but feel my understanding of the relevant clause is inadequate. I appeal to you for instruction. Please respond with a secure frequency at which I can reach you to discuss the matter in detail.

The missive segued into an equally lengthy, formal farewell as Drift and Red Alert returned. Ratchet was rather disgusted to see them both wearing necklaces made of twisted wire and multicolored glass. He would  _ never _ admit he recognized the symbol as a Spectralist glyph of protection; he was just offended by their tawdry existence. 

Blaster pointed to the screen the two of them had used to go over the security footage earlier and it changed from the frozen still of Ultra Magnus to a block of text. “Go over there to discuss it.” Blaster’s screen closed the document and a typed command later was full of computer code. “Red, I could use your help with something. I thought I saw…”

Red Alert hurried over, and Rodimus backed up to make room and join Drift at the other screen. Figuring if Blaster needed  _ him  _ to help with anything, he would have asked him to stay, Ratchet decided to follow the captain, who was back to pacing worriedly while Drift read the message. 

“Well, there’s nothing suspicious there,” Drift concluded, then frowned. “Except the timing. I’d call  _ that _ distinctly fishy.”

“Right!”

Drift abandoned the screen to place a calming hand on Rodimus’ arm, who stopped pacing to lean into the touch. “Calm down, Roddy. Breathe with me.” Fascinatingly, Ratchet actually saw Rodimus do so, following Drift’s meditative pattern for a few vent cycles. “Good. Now, tell us what you think.”

“Someone took him,” Rodimus blurted out immediately. “I don’t know if it was supernatural or zombies or...” he jerked his head toward the message, apparently finding the suspicion too unbelievable to vocalize. “Someone took him and we need to get him back.”

“We will. What else?”

“If it wanted to talk to us, it wouldn’t have taken Mags without a word. It  _ took _ Ultra Magnus, took one of my crew!” He jerked away from Drift’s hand. His optics were clear, determined, and no longer panicked. “That is a clearly hostile act.”

“Agreed — which means following him is going to lead us right into more hostilities,” Ratchet pointed out. “The question is how soon, and how bad, is it going to be?”

Instead of answering — probably because he didn’t know — Rodimus whirled to face Drift again. He flicked the charm hanging from the white speedster’s neck. “I don’t suppose you have more of these?”

“A few,” Drift answered. “But not enough for the entire crew.”

“I’d suggest more  _ practical  _ preparations,” Ratchet said, eyeing the pendant skeptically. “You know, the kind that involve weapon checks and selecting advance teams.”

“We’re already on alert; maybe when we figure out where we’re  _ going—” _

“Like there?” Blaster interrupted.

“Like whe— oh.” It was pretty obvious where as soon as he looked up. The massive rift-portal-thing that  _ definitely  _ hadn’t been there a klik ago filled practically the entire view out the observation window. Ratchet stared stupidly at it while Rodimus ran forward, as if getting a few feet closer would make any difference.

“Let me guess, the  _ Leading Light  _ is headed straight for that thing,” the captain said.

“Yep.”

Rodimus looked back at Drift, who made optic contact and nodded. “Battlestations. Let’s go get Ultra Magnus back.”

.

.

.


	26. Chapter 26

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.

.

Ratchet glared at the stupid sigil in his hand. For reasons that basically boiled down to being ordered to wear it by the captain and not wanting to start a fight with Drift before combat, he was now stuck wearing the dumb anti-possession charm. Rodimus was “not taking any chances”, and the number of mechs on the away team had been limited to the number of charms Drift had. Minus Red Alert, because he refused to give up the one Drift had given him, and he was barricaded in the security office preparing for the imminent attack no one tried convincing him wasn’t coming. Plus Cyclonus, because he had his own… thing, apparently.

He felt slightly mollified by Brainstorm’s tantrum over being forced to wear the thing, in which he said everything Ratchet wanted to. But Brainstorm wanted to go down to the planet — moon, Luna 1, Ratchet was still wrapping his mind around that — and Rodimus didn’t want anyone going down there without one when they still didn’t know what had taken over Ultra Magnus and forced him to come.

Perceptor’s reaction to Drift holding out two of the charms had been, “Again? Fine,” and he’d grabbed his in unison with Whirl. The three had shared a look. They didn’t say anything like  _ Wreck and Rule _ out loud, but Ratchet could hear it hanging in the air between them.

“I’m guessing it doesn’t work if I just hold it in subspace,” he asked Drift without any real hope.

“Unfortunately not.” Drift took the charm, which Ratchet was holding like it was a dead turborat, and put it around Ratchet’s neck. “It’s only for the one mission,” he assured, without a trace of smugness. “I’ll even let you mock me about it later.”

“Considering that I’m going to be mocked first, that does only seem fair.” Ratchet sighed and left the thing in place. “I feel like a jammer would be more effective since Blaster traced the signal that snared Ultra Magnus as coming from Luna 1, but I suppose that would cause other problems.”

“We’re taking all the precautions we can against foreign signals short of a full jammer.” Drift flicked the bit of wire now hanging from Ratchet’s neck. “Just think of it as humoring the captain.”

“I’ll do more than that, I’ll blame him for it,” Ratchet said, and meant it. “But I’m not going to fight about it.” In other words,  _ I’m nervous and it’s making me cranky, please don’t take it personally. _

Moving slowly enough that Ratchet could pull away without bruising either of their egos, Drift pulled him into a hug. Ratchet let him, taking more comfort from it than he cared to admit. 

“Alright then, is everyone ready?” Rodimus called out, and Ratchet stepped back and turned to face him. “Good! I have no idea what we’re going to find down there, so be ready for anything.”

“Are we ready for giant space slugs that reach out of the ground to eat unsuspecting spaceships?” Whirl drawled, clacking his claws together eagerly. 

“That’s Hound and Red Alert’s job, I believe.” Perceptor didn’t take his optics off of the scanner he was bringing. “There are people — Cybertronians — down there, but I should be able to put us down near the  _ Leading Light.” _

“Well I would hope there’s at least one people,” Rodimus said. “We’re not leaving without Ultra Magnus!”

“How  _ many  _ people?” Ratchet asked, feeling that was the more pertinent question. “And can you tell where they’re located?”

“Over a billion,” Perceptor answered Ratchet’s question. “Though it’s difficult to tell their exact dispersal pattern as there are no visible cities or settlements.”

“Over a  _ billion?”  _ How was that even possible? “There aren’t even a fraction of that many Cybertronians left, period, let alone all gathered here.”

“And yet that is what the instruments say,” Perceptor said coolly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rodimus sing-songed. “We’re leaving. All aboard.” He herded them all onto the shuttle. “Drift?”

“On it.” The speedster slid into the pilot’s seat.

Ratchet wound up between Chromedome and Whirl. He started a mental countdown, not for the shuttle to launch, but for Whirl to make another inane comment.

It didn’t take long. “Hello doc! You’re looking very spiritual right now.”

Chromedome snickered.

“Captain’s orders,” Ratchet said, glaring at each of them in turn. “And neither of you have any room to talk.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No.” So help him, if Whirl starting talking just for the sake of talking — or worse, singing; he did  _ not  _ need a remix of Nine Thousand Nine Hundred Ninety Nine Bottles Of Napalm On The Wall right now — Ratchet would take the stupid charm off and hit him with it. “It’s an observation.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Brainstorm complained from his seat. 

“I agree.”

“That’s what you said about the lob ball stickers,” Chromedome pointed out, “but we all saw you wearing them for cycles.”

“Because wearing a stupid sticker was a small price to pay for a free drink!” 

“Pipe down, children,” Perceptor broke in before Whirl could join in the fray. Much to Ratchet’s surprise, Whirl’s only response to being preempted was to pull a face (somehow; Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure what it was supposed to be, but it was expressive of  _ something).  _ Rather than risk upsetting the temporary peace, Ratchet elected to stay quiet too until they reached the surface of the moon.

Whirl  _ did _ end up singing, but Perceptor managed to alternately keep it to a dull roar and divert him with bickering enough that it  _ sort of _ counted as a peaceful shuttle ride.

“There’s the  _ Leading Light,” _ Drift announced from the pilot seat. “Still not seeing any sign of the people that are supposed to be here. I can land right next to it.”

“Do it,” Rodimus ordered. A few kliks later, Ratchet felt the shuttle settle down on the ground. “Cyclonus, Whirl, keep an optic out.”

Whirl held out a pincer to Cyclonus, who gave him a very flat stare as he stood. “Aw come on. No fist bump?”

“No.”

“Party pooper.” Whirl transformed in a blur of rotors and was out the door before it had finished opening.

Ratchet waited for Cyclonus, Brainstorm, and Perceptor to disembark before following with Chromedome. There was the  _ Leading Light  _ alright, but no sign of anyone in or around it. “Not that I’m going to complain about not being ambushed,” he said, walking over to Perceptor, “but I’m not seeing any people.”

“It looks like someone smashed open the cockpit window to get him out,” Chromedome reported. 

“Let’s get a closer look,” Rodimus ordered, coming down the ramp.

**_VOMF!!!_ **

Light erupted from the ground, making them all jump and point weapons at the source. Or, try to. There were so many points of light that Ratchet kept moving his gun, unable to pick a target — and then he realized what he was looking at. “Wow.”

“They’re… are they sparks?” Chromedome asked, lowering his blaster.

“It’s a hot spot,” Drift whispered reverently, putting his own weapons away. “Oh, Primus, they’re beautiful.”

“They weren’t here before… Were they?” Rodimus shielded his optics from the combined light of… of hundreds of sparks. “I feel like we would have noticed this if they were here before…”

“Roddy,” Drift finished coming down the ramp. “It was the Matrix.”

“You think the Matrix ignited the hot spot?” Of course he thought that. Again Ratchet turned to Perceptor. “Is that possible?”

“You probably have more scientific experience with the Matrix than the rest of us but… yes.” Perceptor looked around at the glowing, formerly barren landscape. “The Matrix, carried by a Prime… I think it’s possible.”

“I don’t know that spending more time around the Matrix makes any difference in understanding it.” The darn thing seemed to delight in defying science, and Ratchet had been forced to relegate it to being “just one of those things” that couldn’t be explained (including by religion, thank you very much). “Did you feel anything, Rodimus? Dizzy, light-headed?”

“I don’t know… No.” Rodimus shook his head, still entranced by the glowing sparks beneath their feet. “I didn’t feel anything. It’s only half the Matrix, anyway.”

“Well, half seems to have been enough to— Brainstorm, what are you doing?” 

“Look at this!” Brainstorm was crouched down over one of the sparks, motioning rapidly for Perceptor. “Look at the color!”

“I see it.”

“It’s a superspark!” Brainstorm enthused. “It’s beautiful… “ A small cutting laser extended from one finger and etched into the metal. “I’m going to harvest it!”

“You are  _ not!”  _ Except, of course, he was. “Rodimus, please tell me you’re not going to let him—”

“The ground hasn’t been blessed,” Drift objected at roughly the same time. “And it’s obviously not mature—”

“Everyone look alive while you still can!” Whirl buzzed by overhead, massively louder than the tiny Whirl-bots in the medbay as he came to a halt and hovered above everyone’s heads, guns bristling. “We’ve got company, and they’re about to break out the welcome bullets!”

Brainstorm scrambled to his feet, tools disappearing in favor of weaponry as the sound of blaster fire echoed from just over the ridge. Ratchet recognized the sound of Cyclonus’ guns amidst the cacophony as he braced for combat.

That… was a  _ lot  _ of Decepticons.

Evidently, Rodimus agreed. “Frag.  _ Drive. _ Get out of here! Whirl, Cyclonus, Brainstorm — cover us. Head toward the mountains!”

They all transformed and Brainstorm — bristling with who-knew-what sort of weaponry — joined Whirl and Cyclonus in the air. Ratchet set off at top speed, focusing on dodging rather than returning fire just yet. They didn’t stand a chance against that many foes, no matter how fiercely they fought, unless they got some cover first.

He was really, really glad they didn’t have any non-combatants with them.

They tried to stay somewhat together, but Ratchet quickly lost sight of Chromedome and Perceptor as they veered off to avoid a particularly large explosion. Rodimus was way out ahead of them somewhere, and Ratchet thought Drift was up with him until he caught a glimpse of his sleek alt mode in a side mirror just before—

“Argh!”

Another explosion went off practically under Ratchet’s front tire, causing him to roll and fall out of alt mode as he skidded to a stop amidst a pile of debris.

“Ratchet!”

Shaking his head, he looked up as a pair of feet touched down in front of him. What was… was that… Pharma? 

“My, my. That was a nasty fa—hurk!” 

The other mech (medic?) didn’t get to finish the taunt; another red-and-white blur slammed into him, sending him flying to land in his own crumpled heap and pile of debris.

“Come on,” Drift was suddenly there, helping Ratchet up with one hand while he brandished a sword in the other. “Gotta go.”

Every joint groaned in protest as Ratchet got his feet back under him. “Not… sure I can go very fast,” he admitted as he bit back a gasp of pain. He scrolled quickly through his damage log, looking for anything critical. His armor was dented and pitted from the crash, and he could feel pieces of debris and shrapnel in several places — surface level injuries only, thank goodness. The worst of it, in terms of serious injuries, seemed to be the new crack he was sporting in his windshield. “Is that really…?”

The debris shifted, and Pharma pushed himself to his feet. The  _ chainsaw _ he had instead of one of his hands whirred loudly, threateningly. With a hiss, Drift pushed Ratchet behind him and left him standing on his own to draw his second sword.

“Ah, yes. You. Always with the slicing and dicing,” Pharma said, the scowl on his face at odds with the sing-song quality of his voice. “And here I’d thought running into dear Ratchet here was a stroke of luck. How have you been?” he asked, looking past Drift to Ratchet and laughing. “You’ve certainly looked better.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I looked worse the last time I saw you,” Ratchet said, reaching for his blaster. “So did you, for that matter. How did you survive the rust?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? I  _ might  _ be willing to tell you,” the manic grin accompanying another rev of the chainsaw was anything but reassuring, “if you come with me.”

“We’re not going anywhere with you,” Drift hissed on both their behalfs. Ratchet could practically feel the white frame in front of him quivering and thought that if he weren’t covering Ratchet, he would have already attacked.

“You’re not going— Oh! How silly of me to imply you had a choice.” As if he’d called them — and he probably had — a group of Decepticons descended from the sky behind Pharma, guns all pointed in their direction. “Do as much damage as you need to, but take them alive!”

Drift cursed and pushed Ratchet back, toward a small, uneven ravine. Ratchet readily took cover. It wasn’t much, but it’d keep them from being instantly turned into scrap parts. As soon as he was braced against the low wall of metal, he turned to return fire. 

He hated this.  _ Hated _ it, but four million vorns of reflex and training and Ironhide’s gruff voice yelling in his audios took over. There wasn’t anyone who needed a medic (other than himself, but that wasn’t urgent), and Drift couldn’t be left to just take care of them on his own. Some cycles, Ratchet was just another soldier.

Drift hadn’t taken cover with him. He’d leaped up to catch onto one of the Decepticon hovercrafts, unbalancing it. The thug tried to shoot him off, but Drift threw his weight to one side, further disrupting him and sending his shot wide. He pounced before the ‘Con recovered, throwing him to the ground. 

Now in control of one of the flying things, Drift had no trouble redirecting to charge another. Those two squared off, leaving Ratchet to take care of the third. He focused on bringing down the vehicle rather than the mech riding it. Only after scoring a hit on its engine that sent it spiraling down in a trail of smoke did Ratchet focus fire on the falling Decepticon in an effort to make sure he didn’t get back up again.

No sooner had that one hit the dirt than Ratchet had to abandon his cover to escape another explosion: Pharma’s bombing run. The mad jet transformed to rev his chainsaw hand and giggle over Ratchet as he landed on his aft. “Need a han—ack!”

“That’s getting to be a habit,” Ratchet remarked to Drift, already reaching for the proffered hand to pull him up onto his stolen not-M.A.R.B. 

“Come on.” The sound of the chainsaw ripped through the air. Drift pushed a stolen Decepticon rifle into Ratchet’s hands. “Hold him off.” Then he practically redlined the not-M.A.R.B.’s engine in his haste to get them the slag out of there.

Pharma got himself back in the air quickly, despite having been run over for the second time in almost as many kliks. Ratchet did his best to target his wings, trying to ground him, but Drift’s driving made that difficult. Dodging plasma blasts was important though, so Ratchet didn’t say anything about it; he just cursed as shot after shot went astray or landed without doing any real damage.

Three more flying Decepticons came streaking into their field of vision and Ratchet barely heard Drift curse again. They were already going at an utterly reckless speed trying to outpace Pharma; the Decepticons were slower, but there were more of them. Ratchet worried that they were trying to herd the two Autobots into a trap or an ambush and opened his mouth to try and warn Drift—

Drift cut their speed and flung them around, practically turning on a shanix to bring an abrupt halt to their forward momentum. They skidded unpredictably and Ratchet had to abandon all pretense of shooting to hold on, but Pharma overshot them, peppering the ground with plasma fire where they would have been. Then Drift pulled them out of their skid, aiming right toward the Decepticons!

“If this is how you and Roddy drive when you race around the  _ Lost Light  _ it’s no wonder you come back in pieces!” Ratchet shouted, happy to not be hit but otherwise completely not comfortable with such risky maneuvers.

Drift threw them into another skid under the Decepticons, changing direction again; the Decepticons scattered, coming around to shoot at them nearly as fast, while Pharma made another, mostly ineffectual pass above them. “Oh?” Drift’s voice was riding the edge between stressed and gleeful that told Ratchet he wasn’t  _ quite _ berserking. “You think this is  _ reckless, _ or something?”

“Or something!” Reckless wasn’t a strong enough word, and Ratchet was too busy holding on for dear life to think of a better one. “I can’t cover us when you keep jerking us around, you know!”

“You’d rather fly this thing?”

“Not especially,” Ratchet said, willing to admit that while he could fly it if he had to, Drift was the better pilot. Especially under the current circumstances. 

“Get ready!” Drift pulled sideways to avoid a blast and knocked right into another Decepticon, momentarily tangling their vehicles in a spiraling, erratic mess of changing velocities… and giving Ratchet a perfect shot at the cursing, struggling-to-regain-control thug. Two shots, one to the shoulder and the other to the torso, unbalanced him and sent him sliding off the driver’s platform with smoke billowing from his chassis — white smoke, indicating a ruptured coolant line.

“Hold on,” Ratchet said, bracing himself before giving the other vehicle a hard kick to dislodge it. Without a pilot it fell away and crashed into the ground, the turbine on one side caved in badly enough that no one was going to be getting it back in the air any time soon.

With an exclamation that sounded far too much like a laugh for Ratchet’s peace of mind, Drift did a barrel roll before abruptly changing directions again. They were buffeted by the shockwaves of Pharma’s latest bombing run, only barely managing to avoid getting blown into oblivion. But—

“Frag!”

—something had obviously punctured their engine turbine, and now it was trailing smoke.

“I think this is the part where we abandon ship and go to ground!” Before the thing blew up under their feet. There were only two Decepticons left, plus Pharma, which meant they had a chance to make it to the cover Ratchet could see just ahead. 

“You able to drive?” Drift called back. 

Transforming would hurt, but, “Yes. I can probably make it up to near my top speed.” Which was a respectable speed, though it had nothing on Drift when he really let loose. 

“Good.” Drift threw them into a dizzying downward spiral that leveled off abruptly a few feet off the ground. “Go. I’ll catch up.”

Trusting him to do so, Ratchet leapt clear, forced himself back into altmode, and took off without hesitation. The shift caused several pieces of debris to fall out of his frame, but drove a few others in deeper, and Ratchet scanned his HUD along with his rearview to made sure he didn’t need to stop. Nope; nothing critical severed, and Pharma was coming up behind him again. But Ratchet was coming up on a break in the ground, one that led down into what looked like a canyon. He just needed to get there first!

An explosion behind him made Ratchet swerve automatically before he realized it wasn’t one of Pharma’s bombs. Two of the Decepticon hovercrafts had crashed into each other, reduced to a shower of debris that caused the final one to skid out of control through the air as its pilot tried to avoid the same fate. 

Drift was nowhere to be seen.

Before Ratchet could panic about that, he heard the roar of a speedster’s engine coming up behind him. The medic in him hoped that Drift was being careful of the uneven ground for the sake of his undercarriage, but the rest of him shoved that thought down beneath the far more practical  _ better dinged up than dead. _

“How many ‘Cons left?” he shouted to Drift.

“Just one, and—” Simultaneously, they swerved to avoid a spat of plasma fire from Pharma. 

“He’s really starting to annoy me,” Ratchet said, flashing a turn signal to indicate which way he was headed. “Think we can lose them up there?”

“Hope so.” 

They didn’t turn in unison, too busy jinking and weaving to avoid the incoming fire from above. Drift even whirled, spraying Ratchet with dirt, to transform and take a stab at the final Decepticon on their tails when he came incautiously close to them. Unfortunately, he didn’t connect solidly enough to do more than force the ‘Con to back off temporarily, but that was enough for them to reach the edge of what did in fact turn out to be a canyon.

A canyon with a steep drop from where they were standing that opened out in front of them to reveal dozens upon dozens of broken, rusted, decaying titans.

Ratchet didn’t have time to ponder it. He didn’t have time to stop and change directions either. All he had time to do was transform back into root mode and lean his weight back into his heels, letting his momentum and gravity carry him down the side of the canyon. There was nothing he could do to stop himself from falling; all he could do was try to steer himself out of the way of the sharp metal protrusions sticking out of the canyon wall as they rushed up to meet him.

Having wheels in his feet helped. Ratchet didn’t dare take his optics off the obstacles ahead of him to check, so he had to just hope Drift was managing without the same advantage. 

His controlled fall finally slowed to the point he was able to run the last several steps down the decreasing incline at the bottom of the canyon, ducking under the greyed armor of one of the dead titans. A nanoklik later something slammed into him, and Ratchet swung a wide punch on autopilot before he recognized Drift. “Sorry.”

“Make it up to me later.” Drift pushed Ratchet further under cover. “Keep moving.” 

_Thumph!_ _Vrrrrrrrrrr!_ Pharma landed behind them, transforming. The chainsaw revved ominously “Are we playing hide and seek?”

“Not a chance,” Drift muttered. “Keep going,” he ordered Ratchet, turning to face the unhinged medic with drawn steel. 

“Keep going where?” They didn’t know where any of the others, Autobot or Decepticon, were, other than the one Decepticon buzzing past them just outside the titan’s armor, unable to maneuver into the tight spaces in the artificial ravine, which had Ratchet less than keen on the idea of splitting up now that they had some cover.

“That way,” Drift threw a swift gesture deeper into cover, almost underneath the titan. 

Pharma giggled and his second hand transformed into a chainsaw to match the other he was already wielding. “What are the words? Olly olly oxen free?”

Drift rushed him before Pharma could move, ducking under one chainsaw to strike at his body with his swords. Pharma whirled to come back at him and Drift circled, both efficient and deadly. Drift seemed the better of the two of them at this, but he was handicapped by the need to avoid the chainsaws entirely. Ratchet took a step forward before thinking better of it, and instead backed up so he wouldn’t be in Drift’s way. They were moving far too fast for him to get any sort of shot off. He should be  _ doing  _ something—

“And where do you think  _ you’re  _ going?” 

A hand clamped down on Ratchet’s shoulder from behind, the sharp curved point of some sort of blade wrapping around the other to rest lightly at his neck. The voice wasn’t familiar, but there was no mistaking the mech’s threat.  _ Damn.  _ How many more Decepticons had come up behind them?

“Right now I’ll settle for away from you,” Ratchet hissed, testing the mech’s hold to see if he could get any leverage to escape. He still had his blaster in his hand, but his arm was firmly pinned at his side by the arm around his shoulder; the only thing he could shoot right now was his own foot.

“No doubt,” the mech said smoothly. Mild and mocking, he sounded much saner than Pharma; Ratchet wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for them or not. “But if I let you go, the mad doctor will cry, and I don’t want to deal with that again. Besides, I would very much like the chance to say hello to Deadlock once they’re done playing.”

A couple of Decepticons, sans hovercrafts, moved in around Drift and Pharma, though they hesitated to get too close to the whirlwind of blades. Ratchet winced as Drift ducked just barely in time to get his head out of the way of one of the chainsaws. The ringing sound of metal on metal could have been the grinding teeth clipping the end of a finial, or it could have been Drift’s sword knocking against Pharma’s wrist and deflecting the attempted follow up, Ratchet couldn’t tell.

They were both moving fast, but whatever was fueling the manic light in Pharma’s optics seemed to be fueling the rest of him as well. Every swing had the same force as the last, while Drift’s agile evasions and counterstrikes were starting to slow. Seeing an opening, one of the Decepticons lurking at the edge of their battle laughed and lunged forward, a move Ratchet could see wasn’t designed to truly bring him within range of Drift but which was still enough to have Drift leaping sideways to dodge the not-quite-threat. He rolled to a stop practically at Pharma’s feet, leaving him with no choice but to raise his sword in an attempt to block the overhand swing bearing down on him.

_ KA-IRRSSHTT!! _

The sword splintered as the chainsaw crashed into it, interrupting the swing enough for Drift to frantically push himself out of range amidst a rain of metal shards. Several of them got caught in the teeth of the chainsaw and flew off the whirling chain in every direction. Pharma let out a pained shriek of rage as one struck his face, and the other Decepticons all ducked or raised their arms protectively. Ratchet felt a piece ricochet off his windshield, striking at the wrong angle to penetrate but with enough force to deepen the crack already there. 

If his captor was hit, however, he didn’t even flinch. “I think that’s enough, doctor,” he drawled, and, remarkably, Pharma stopped attacking. “I’ve already got what you want right here.”

Drift rolled to his feet, automatically coming up in a two-handed grip on his remaining sword. Blazing red optics narrowed. “Lockdown.”

“Yes, yes,” the mech, Lockdown apparently, said almost carelessly. “What a darling collection of arch-enemies we have here. Good to see you again, Deadlock.”

“Let him go,” Drift growled, baring his sharpened teeth menacingly.

“Or?” Lockdown chuckled, a thoroughly unpleasant sound. “You’re really not in a position to be making demands.”

“Drift,” Ratchet started to yell for him to run, but the blade at his throat pressing down warned him to stop. Pharma had said earlier to take them alive, but he had no way of knowing how far Lockdown was willing to humor him.

“Drift, huh? Still using that alias, are you?”

“Has the advantage of being my name, slagsucker,” Drift snarled back. Despite the venom in his voice, Ratchet saw Drift’s shoulders relax. He straightened, letting go of his remaining sword, first with one hand, then the other, letting it fall to the ground at his feet. There it clanged, bounced once, then went still.

“And yet I see you’ve gone back to your true colors,” Lockdown said, ignoring the barb. “Nice optics. Did he,” Ratchet felt a light tap on his own plating, “install them for you?”

“He couldn’t have,” Pharma scoffed. “An operation that delicate would have been beyond your failing hands,” he smiled wickedly, “wouldn’t it, Ratchet?”

Ratchet’s hands —  _ Pharma’s  _ hands, though he obviously hadn’t recognized them through the new paint — tightened at his sides. Lockdown’s blade was all that kept a smart retort from flying out of his mouth that only would have made things worse.

Drift exploded into a flurry of motion, diving forward as he reached up to grasp the Great Sword on his back—

“Stop him!” Lockdown barked out, and all of the Decepticons leapt at Drift at once. Ratchet felt a sharp pain at the back of his head, and suddenly everything went black.

.

.

.

“…Ratchet…” Something called quietly, a gentle, enticing whisper that sounded somehow familiar. “Raaaaatchet. Wakey, wakey.”

Did he want to wake up? Ratchet had a vague sense that it wouldn’t be to anything good. His processor felt slightly muddled, making his optics slow to focus, but when they did—

“Ah! There we go. You were being very rude, keeping me waiting.”

“Pharma.” Great. He hadn’t dreamed it all. Which meant— “Where’s Drift?”

“Oh! Is this a game? I hadn’t thought of that. Go on, guess,” Pharma sing-songed, leaning in close so that the other medic’s ugly faceplate was all Ratchet could see. “Your little hand-thief is in a lot of trouble you know. Stealing is wrong,  _ tsk.” _

“Hand-thief?” So he’d figured out the truth about the hands Ratchet was currently using. Unsurprising, but Ratchet deliberately misinterpreted him. “No one’s going to steal your stupid chainsaws.” He tried to move to look around Pharma but it was useless; he couldn’t see, but he was pretty sure he was secured on a medical slab. There was no way to turn his head. 

“Stupid?” Pharma actually sounded hurt, stepping back to look at the chainsaws at the end of each arm. “I think they’re very clever.”

“Well, you thought wrong.” Whatever Lockdown had done to knock him out, it had been brutally effective. Ratchet could feel the back of his head still throbbing, and dealing with Pharma wasn’t helping. “Now where’s Drift? Did you trade him to Lockdown for me?”

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Pharma pouted, ignoring the question. “They were a gift — a wonderful, glorious gift — from one genius to another. They turn into anything.” With a flash of light and a blurry transformation, the chainsaws both disappeared, leaving behind a pair of perfect, blue hands. “You see?”

“Yes. Fascinating.” Why couldn’t Pharma be like he’d been at Delphi at the end, all too eager to ramble on about his brilliant plans? He’d been far too long-winded about it, but at least then Ratchet had been able to get some answers. Maybe he needed to start with something else. “Where are we?”

“But you haven’t even guessed the answer to your first question yet!”

“I’m not playing guessing games with you!”

“Fine. I’ll tell you where your hand-thief is… or,” Pharma giggled, “better yet, I’ll show you.” He stepped aside and gestured with his hands, like he was presenting a prize. Following the gesture, Ratchet saw Drift floating, limp and still, in a nearby CR chamber. “I’m afraid I broke him a little before you woke up, Ratchet. It was very careless of me. But no worries! I’m a doctor!” He giggled.

Ratchet felt his spark constrict. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing he didn’t ask me to do!” Pharma rested a hand on a tray of tools Ratchet was glad he was at the wrong angle to see properly. “Really, you should have heard him. Practically  _ begging  _ for it! And certainly asking for it,” he hissed, anger briefly eclipsing his deranged humor. 

As much as Ratchet recoiled from the thought of just how much damage Pharma might have done that Drift needed a CR tank to be fully repaired, he could also all too easily imagine the speedster goading him into doing it… as long as it kept the crazy medic’s attention on him, instead of following through with whatever plans he had had for Ratchet. It made him sick, and vaguely guilty, which settled uneasily next to his worry and fear.

Almost as if he was aware of being watched, Drift’s optics flickered on, a barely-there pink light that indicated he’d come up from unconsciousness.

“Oh look! He’s back with us already. Much more considerate than you were,” Pharma said with a sneer. “I mean, I suppose I  _ could  _ have taken my hands back while you were unconscious, but it will be much safer to perform the operation with you awake.”

“That’s…” Ratchet would have shaken his head if he’d been able to move. “You might want to try being a little less crazy if you want me to follow your train of thought.”

“Because— oh,” Pharma deflated slightly as Drift optics flickered back off and his frame went limp in the weightlessness of the CR tank. “I was really hoping he’d be awake to watch this… Oh well. I’m not going to delay now that  _ you’re _ awake. Because,” he puffed up again, “I’m a doctor, not a bomb disposal expert. So first,” one of his hands transformed into a collection of small blades haphazardly sprouting from his wrist, “I need you to tell me how to dis _ arm _ — hehe — them.”

“Bombs.” Ratchet stared at his former friend and colleague in disbelief. “You actually think I wired  _ bombs  _ into your hands when I attached them to my body?”

“I think it’s possible. Your little hand-thief seems to think a cosmic rust trap is more likely.” Pharma tapped his chin thoughtfully. “But really, I don’t think you would have risked using something I could cure, so simple explosives make the most sense. So are you going to tell me what I want to know, or,” he shifted straight back into gleeful cackle, “do I get to carve it out of you?”

Knowing Drift had planted or encouraged the idea helped explain it, but Ratchet still couldn’t see where the idea of wiring bombs into his own frame made any kind of sense. Pharma was clearly completely out of his mind, and that did not bode well for him. “And what exactly is it you want to know then?” Ratchet asked, struggling to come up with something he could do other than try to delay Pharma’s attempts to butcher him by talking. “You know, you could save yourself a whole lot of trouble by just  _ not  _ removing them. You’ve already got your wonderful, glorious gift-hands.”

“You’re right,” Pharma sing-songed. “I don’t need those ratty old things anymore. But it’s not about wanting them back, really. When I saw them, saw what you’d  _ done… _ Well, at first I just wanted to hurt you, but now. You declared war on my  _ body, _ Ratchet, and that takes things to a whole new level. Hmm…” He contemplated his literal handful of blades. “I don’t think these are what I need.” A blur of transformation turned the hand into a large circular saw and Pharma’s optics glowed brighter in satisfaction. It whirred on. “Perfect!” 

Ratchet felt the first cut above his wrist grind into his plating at an agonizingly slow pace. He let out a sharp cry before gritting his teeth and powering through the pain to reroute the sensory input from his arm as much as possible. Making it stop hurting wasn’t possible, but he could and did minimize it while Pharma wasted time cutting away the access panel above his wrist that could have just been manually retracted.

The saw stopped briefly as Pharma tore the metal away completely, letting it fall to the floor with a dull  _ clang!  _ “I was hoping you’d be a little more vocal,” he complained.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Ratchet grunted, not sorry in the least. Preemptively, he deadened his other hand as he felt Pharma start gingerly poking around in his wrist actuators. “Still looking for explosives?”

“Now, Ratchet — no good surgeon would ever start cutting blindly! I’m just getting an idea for what I’m dealing with. And looking for explosives,” he tacked on, pushing a few more components around before laughing and re-engaging the saw. “Clever! Very clever. You’ve rerouted your pain sensors to keep from crying out. But have you shut down  _ all  _ of them?” As Ratchet had predicted, he went for his other wrist first, but when that didn’t get the response he wanted, he started getting creative.

Pain was not fun. Pain was incredibly not fun, and Pharma knew what he was doing to cause it as efficiently as possible. Granted, there was only so much subtlety even he could manage with a large, clunky circular saw, but that wasn’t much of a mercy. Ratchet did his best to throttle his sensory net and his vocalizer, determined to give Pharma as little satisfaction as he could for as long as he could.

“What’s this?” Ratchet almost didn’t hear the outrage in Pharma’s voice over the sound of his own vents. He sagged in his bonds when the saw was pulled away and spun to a stop before transforming back into a hand to examine his other wrist. Lack of pain felt almost as hard to endure as the pain itself… 

Pharma suddenly ripped the rest of that armor plate away with a screech.  _ “How dare you!” _

“Ah!” Ratchet managed to bite back most of the pained shout, but not all of it. “Really,” he gasped, wondering what Pharma was so incensed about  _ now,  _ “you’re the one tearing pieces off of people, and you’re going to stand there accusing  _ me  _ of something?”

“You put holes in  _ my _ hands!” Pharma retorted angrily. “What were you doing? Stims?”

“Don’t be  _ ridiculous,”  _ Ratchet shot back immediately. He would never! 

“Then how did these scars get here?! They—” Pharma’s hand turned into a series of magnifying glasses and he leaned in to examine whatever he’d found. “They almost,” he said thoughtfully, “look like fangs.”

Oh no. Ohhh, no. Ratchet had thought the last bite would have completely healed by now, but apparently not. Or at least, not enough to evade Pharma’s scrutiny. While Ratchet still wasn’t ashamed of them in the slightest, he had zero interest in explaining himself to the crazy mech with sharp objects for hands. “Maybe the  _ Lost Light  _ has space mites.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire…”

“You don’t know.” They could very well have space mites. Brainstorm would probably love that… Ratchet wrenched his processor back to situation at hand. “Anyway, it wasn’t a statement, it was a speculation.”

“This is a desecration…” Pharma murmured, ignoring Ratchet. “I cannot believe you’d be so rude. I should have just taken you apart while you were unconscious… You did it just to spite me. You  _ let someone bite you _ just to spite me. Who…?” His optics narrowed. 

Ratchet was rather proud of himself for not immediately looking across the room to the CR tank, but he knew it wasn’t going to make any difference in the end. Pharma was, in spite of his insanity, still a brilliant doctor, and it wouldn’t be difficult to match up the marks on his wrist with the fangs in Drift’s mouth.

“Well,” Pharma said eerily calmly after a moment of further scrutiny. “It seems your little hand-thief has  _ much _ to answer for. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His hand transformed back into an actual hand and he patted Ratchet gently on the cheek. “You get a break while I torture your  _ friend.” _

“Leave him alone,” Ratchet said, at once wishing he’d said something else when he saw the light in Pharma’s optics. “He’s not even awake. Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re right,” Pharma agreed after a moment. “But that’s what the shock prod is for!” He laughed.

No. Nonono. “You already tortured him,” Ratchet tried, hoping he didn’t look as desperate as he felt. “Plus, your hands are still on my wrists.”

“Why, Ratchet,” the mad medic crooned, “you sound like you  _ care  _ about this ingrate… I mean, I knew he cared about you with the whole self sacrificing, dragging himself off his deathbed to rescue you thing, but really, you make it sound like it’s  _ mutual.” _

“Get your audios checked,” Ratchet said, attempting to deny it. “He’s just a crewmember. I don’t care about him any more than anyone else.”

“Not helping your case, Ra~tchet!” Pharma contemplated his hands while he cycled through several tools, each more gruesome than the last. “All you do is care. Even if he were of no more note to you than a scraplet — which,  _ liar, liar pants on fire _ — you’d still scream if I hurt him.” Manic glee shone in the depths of his optics. “And really, I don’t need any more reason than that to do it, do I?”

“Pharma, no,” Ratchet pleaded. “Don’t.”

Pharma laughed. “Oh, Ratchet…” He paced toward the CR tank, one of his hands finally settling and becoming a long, wicked looking shock prod. He reached out with his other to the tank’s controls, then paused. “Actually, you know what? I will give you a chance to rescue your  _ dear friend.” _

It was a trap. Ratchet knew it was a trap. “Tell me.”

Pharma turned back, shock prod gone as quickly as it had appeared as he spread two blue hands out harmlessly. “It’s simple. I’ll do some grievous bodily harm to your little hand-thief — nothing major. I’ll just cut him in half,” he swept his hand through the air, left to right, transforming it into a chainsaw as he did so. “And if you can repair it, I’ll let him go. How does that sound?”

“What? No!” Being sawn in half was a survivable injury, yes, but it was an incredibly taxing repair for both the medic performing it (and Ratchet wasn’t in peak condition after the chase and Pharma’s explorations) and for the patient. “Pharma, please, I’m begging you. I’ll— I’ll tell you how to disarm the bombs, I’ll remove your hands from my arms myself!”

“Finally I’m hearing something other than your sass,” Pharma crooned happily. 

“No more sass,” Ratchet promised, ignoring the pain straining against his bonds was sparking throughout his frame. He was terrified; he wasn’t going to be able to stop him! “Please!”

“Oh, this is good. I like this, but you know what?” Pharma cackled, turning back to the CR tank. “I think I’ll saw him in half  _ anyway, _ then I’ll turn you loose and you can just repair him or not. Your choice!”

“No!”

Ratchet watched in horror as the fluid inside the tank drained away. Drift sagged limply, unconscious still, only nominally upright against the back of the tank as the front lifted away. Pharma didn’t even bother to pull him out, he just raised his arm, chainsaw revving viciously as he lined up to to bring the weapon down in an overhand—

“You said you were going to cut him in half!”

“Yes,” Pharma said, a hideous, deranged smile on his face. “Lengthw—”

Optics suddenly blazing bright pink, Drift snarled. A rather large assault rifle appeared in his unbound hands and he blasted Pharma, who flew across the room to land in a heap of broken medical equipment.

He didn’t get up.

“Drift!” Ratchet’s voice came out somewhere between a shout and a sob. If he hadn’t still been restrained to the slab behind him, he was sure he would have fallen as  _ relief  _ hit him hard enough to make his vision blur. 

Narrowed optics rapidly changing color from the pink to dark, fierce red, Drift ignored him and stalked over to where Pharma had fallen. He kicked away some of the debris, and Ratchet heard the mad medic groan; a groan that was abruptly silenced when Drift vaporized his head with a plasma blast from the assault rifle.

Seeing him standing there like that, optics blazing and completely unperturbed by the quick, efficient death he’d just dealt out, Ratchet thought he had a pretty good idea what Deadlock had looked like. Given the circumstances, it was equal parts reassuring and terrifying. “…Drift?” 

Drift shook himself, then hurried over to Ratchet. The cuffs his hands had been secured with still dangled from one wrist. “Let’s get you free of that.” He checked over the restraints and, cursing when he saw how they were locked and not just buckled, pulled out a knife to pry open the side of the medberth so he could get at the wires. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Not that badly,” Ratchet said, then realized the amount of pain he was in wasn’t an accurate representation of the damage he’d taken thanks to his efforts to get through it. “I’m not sure.”

Drift reached into the side of the berth and, after a moment, yanked out a small handful of wires. The restraints released.

Ratchet started to fall forward, but Drift was  _ there _ holding him up. “Let me know when you can stand. He didn’t carve up anything on your legs, did he?”

“Just a few surface cuts.” Pharma had been much more interested in damaging his arms, but that didn’t stop Ratchet from clinging to Drift. Drift let him, stroking gently down his back. “I thought…” So many awful things. “I thought you were unconscious.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you I was okay.” 

“Are you? Okay, I mean,” Ratchet said, pulling back just enough to meet Drift’s optics without letting go. “He said he broke you, and for some reason I’m having trouble believing he really fixed everything.”

“I’m fine. All green across the board.” Drift stroked Ratchet one more time. “I’m not the one bleeding.” Gently he disentangled them. “I don’t know how to use any of this junk,” he waved at the room at large, all business. “Pharma told me the place was well stocked, but given his priorities that could mean anything. You good to fix yourself up a bit, or am I pulling out a first aid kit?”

“I can do it,” Ratchet said, taking a look around. “Whatever else he is— was,” he corrected himself with a glance at Pharma’s headless frame, “he was still a medic, and I’m willing to bet his assessment would have been based on the usual standards for a medical facility.” Which was a good thing, because as he looked at the mess of his wrists, he could tell he was going to need specialized tools. “Do you have any idea if anyone else was captured?”

“I didn’t see anyone.” Drift stepped away, prowling the edges of the room and checking the door. “Pharma wanted us both, and Lockdown didn’t object too strenuously, but he did mention taking ‘the others’ to Tyrest.”

“So he  _ is  _ the one behind this.” 

“Yeah…” Optics brightening, Drift reached into a… something, cupboard of some kind maybe… and pulled out his unbroken sword. He sheathed it in favor of keeping the assault rifle out and ready. “Obviously Pharma’s never dealt with keeping prisoners of war,” he chuckled. “And I don’t think Lockdown liked him much. Too bad that didn’t extend to letting Pharma deal with my Great Sword,” he muttered darkly.

“I’m a bit surprised you have any weapons at all,” Ratchet admitted. As much as he hated the thing right now, he cranked the slab back down to horizontal and pulled the instrument tray over so he could get to work. “Incredibly grateful, but surprised. Pharma may have dealt primarily with Autobot patients, but he knew how important it was to disarm them in case they panicked.” 

“I don’t think he thought I had more than more than the swords,” Drift said ruefully, fully aware of how many of their crewmembers thought the same. “And it’s why I said Lockdown didn’t like him; otherwise he would have warned Pharma I wasn’t  _ just _ a swordsmech.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry he didn’t.” Ratchet didn’t know how Lockdown knew Drift, but the fact that he’d kept calling him Deadlock said plenty. There was no way  _ he  _ would have overlooked a subspaced rifle. “So. What’s the plan for when I’m finished here?” He was working quickly, but there was only so fast he could operate one-handed on himself. “Assuming no one comes in and finds us free and armed and tries to do something about it.”

“‘Tries’ being the operative word,” Drift practically snarled. Then he shook himself, settling. “My Great Sword is out there,” he pointed through one wall. “And there’s something else…” He shrugged. “It’s as good a place to start looking for Roddy and the others as any.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t like Ratchet had any better ideas. He hadn’t even seen any of the complex, having been unconscious when they were brought in. “See if there are any armor patches in that drawer, would you? It’ll be faster than trying to reattach the pieces Pharma ripped off.”

Drift nodded. He stalked around the indicated drawer so that he was still facing the door when he opened it, only briefly taking his optics off of it while he searched. “Here.” He found a, surprise, surprise, sterile and still sealed package of temporary armor. “Anything else while I’m over here?”

“A fresh coil of flux-core solder and something to rerun microcables would be helpful,” Ratchet answered. “And my blaster, if it’s laying around anywhere.”

Drift pulled a few more things out of the drawer and then closed it up. He placed all three of his retrieved supplies on the berth next to Ratchet. It was the right solder, but not quite the right tool for the microcables. It’d work, though. 

A moment later he dropped a package of solidified energon cubes from his subspace on the berth as well. “Eat those. I didn’t see your blaster, but…” He pulled out a package for himself as he went back to the cupboard he’d pulled his sword from. Ratchet left him to his search, focusing on untangling the mess of frayed, shredded components in his wrist.

It hurt. It hurt as much, if not more, than when Pharma had done the damage in the first place. Ratchet left his neural reroutes in place as long as possible, but he couldn’t finish the repair accurately without restoring normal sensation, and he hissed in pain as all the signals flooded his processor at once.

Drift’s gaze flicked over to Ratchet at the sound, but he went back to his search when all Ratchet did was continue the repair.

Lots of solder, copious nanite gel and a hard armor patch later, Ratchet was satisfied that his wrist would hold up to firing a gun. It wasn’t pretty, and he’d want to redo some of the more delicate work later — or better yet, have First Aid do it — but it would do. “One down, one to go,” he muttered, pausing just long enough to pop several ration cubes in his mouth before bracing to repeat every painful step on the other hand.

“Found your blaster,” Drift announced, tossing the pieces to the floor. “Looney Tunes sure held a grudge, didn’t he?”

“Apparently.” So much for being able to use that weapon ever again. “I wish…” Ratchet trailed off with a sigh. “Nevermind. Those things taste terrible, by the way.”

Drift eyed him suspiciously, but whatever he was thinking, he let it go with a shrug. “They taste fine; we’ve both eaten worse. You’re a decent shot. You can use my assault rifle. It needs two hands, and I prefer the sword. I have a handgun for my offhand.”

“Thanks,” Ratchet said, perfectly happy to take the rifle. Now he just needed his other hand to be able to use it! “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked as he tried to restore the motor connection to his last two fingers.

“I just came out of the CR chamber,” Drift chided… which didn’t exactly answer the question.

“We’re in a medbay right now, and we’re about to go out into almost certain violence. If there’s anything you’re not telling me that you’re going to wish you’d said later, this is the time to speak up.”

“I have a crack in my primary femoral strut,” Drift said bluntly. “And Pharma was none too gentle when he was rearranging my torso. I could have used about a joor longer in that tank, but we don’t have time to fix that now. We might be the only members of the away team free, and who knows what shape the  _ Lost Light _ is in? I can run. I can fight. And I can transform. I’m  _ fine.” _

“Okay then.” Thinking that over, Ratchet couldn’t think of anything he could do quickly that would make a difference. “It’s not like I’m trying to find excuses to stay here.”

“Fusspot,” Drift said fondly, placing the rifle down on the berth for Ratchet to pick up. He looked over at the wall he’d pointed to before. “Something’s happening.”

“Something good, something bad, or something you don’t know?” Ratchet hissed in pain again as he restored full sensation to his other hand, and cursed when only one of the two deadened fingers twitched. Oh well. He’d still be able to manage the gun. “And I’m not a fusspot.” Even if he was relieved Drift wasn’t getting impatient with him. Ratchet hadn’t often been in combat with Drift, and all of those times had been in large engagements with many mechs. Here, now, conversing with a mix of Drift’s gentler words and Deadlock’s more vicious practicality, Ratchet wasn’t as certain where he stood.

“I don’t know. Someone’s picked up my Great Sword, but isn’t trying to use it.” Drift shook his head. “Ready to go?”

“How can you possibly tell that someone’s picked it up?” Second wrist covered with a new armor patch, Ratchet was finally able to take stock of his other injuries. Legs, torso, shoulders… all of it was minor damage designed to hurt, not cripple. Repairs to them could wait, and while he was worried about his windshield cracking further, cleaning, filling, and sealing the existing cracks would take too long, and cutting and fitting a new window was right out. He settled for grabbing a tube of epoxy cement and smearing it over the worst of the damage to hold things in place.

“Because it’s a Great Sword,” Drift explained patiently, “and it’s mine. Until I die, we’ll always have some idea of each others’ status.” Which didn’t really explain much at all.

“Of course. Magical sentient sword. How could I forget?” Just like the entire fragging moon was supposed to be magic. How stupid. Ratchet scooped up the assault rifle. “Yes, I’m ready to go.”

Drift didn’t try to argue his point. Instead he cautiously opened the door, checking for guards. The hall was empty and he quietly moved out into it, heading the direction he thought his sword was in. Ratchet followed close behind, covering his back.

They’d barely gone any distance at all when the sound of footsteps came echoing around the corner. Both of them raised their weapons, ready for a fight, when—

“Drift! Ratchet!” A group of familiar faces appeared, Rodimus in the lead. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”

“Ditto.” Something in Drift’s frame relaxed and Ratchet could practically hear the smile in his voice. “Roddy! Everyone okay? What’s the word from the  _ Lost Light?” _

“Everyone” included some new faces, Ratchet saw. Tailgate — being carried by Rodimus — Skids, Swerve, Perceptor, and someone Ratchet didn’t know had joined them, while Whirl and Cyclonus were still missing. They mostly looked alright, if a bit battered, but Rodimus handed Tailgate to him as soon as he was close enough. Ratchet in turn handed Drift’s assault rifle off to Skids. “Little guy can’t walk,” Rodimus said, then told Drift, “No word from the  _ Lost Light  _ directly, which has me a little worried since we know they were attacked.”

“Tyrest beamed a bunch of his Legislators onboard,” Skids explained. “The oil reservoir was crawling with them.”

“So was my bar! Though the security Brainstorm installed was enough to hold them off while we made a break for it,” Swerve said, which had the scientist preening where he stood.

“I thought we were goners for sure!” Tailgate chirped in Ratchet’s arms. “Only instead of killing us, they just kept chasing us.” 

“I’d just joined up with them and finished up the last of them where we were when Star Saber showed up.”

Drift’s gaze whipped around to face Skids. “Star Saber’s wrapped up in this, too?”

“He’s working for Tyrest,” Rodimus said gently, placing a comforting hand on Drift’s quivering plating.

Drift growled and glared at the wall — the direction he’d said he sword was in, Ratchet noted. “I think I know where the Circle of Light is,” he bit out.

“If you’re thinking they’re here, you’d be right,” the stranger in the crowd spoke up. “Or, at least, what’s left of them. Tyrest was using them for experiments and materials for his Legislators, and I don’t know how many are still alive.”

“Dai Atlas, probably two hundred others,” Drift answered without hesitation. He narrowed his optics suspiciously at the stranger, then dismissed the thought. “Please tell me we’re putting a stop to it?” He looked back at Roddy.

“Oh, we’re one hundred percent putting a stop to it. All of it. Tyrest has completely lost it, making up laws and sentencing us and half the population at large to death and all kinds of other things that are entirely Not Okay.” Ratchet would have had trouble believing all of that, except for the perfectly serious expression on Rodimus’ face. “Also he’s got Ultra Magnus, and we still need to rescue him.”

Drift nodded. “Lead the way, captain.” He stepped aside so Rodimus could move past him.

“Let’s go, people!”

Ratchet let himself fall in near the middle of the pack as they set off, still carrying Tailgate. “Can’t walk, huh?”

“Just a little trouble with the old leg servos,” Tailgate said cheerfully. “Ever get that? Occasional joint stiffness, that sort of thing?”

Ah. He was still trying to hide it. “I’ll see what I can do when we get a moment,” Ratchet said before adding, quietly, “I’m sorry. It may be temporary, but it could also be a progression of your condition.”

“That’s okay. We’re kicking aft and taking names, and I wouldn’t want to miss  _ that.” _ Tailgate didn’t sound particularly happy, but not despairing. Ratchet supposed that was the best they could hope for. It was unfortunate the poor minibot had been caught up in all this, but keeping noncombatants out of the away team was only so effective when the battle got brought to the ship.

“Do you have any idea what happened to the others on the  _ Lost Light?”  _ Ratchet asked, noticing for the first time what looked suspiciously like a stab mark in Skids’ torso.

Tailgate shook his head slowly. “There were all sorts of alarms and Legislators everywhere… Swerve and I didn’t see anyone else except Skids. They have to be okay though, right? Star Saber was really mad about having to retreat with just us.”

“We heard Blaster making announcements over the PA and checking in on different parts of the ship,” Swerve chimed in, “but we didn’t have access to the command channel, so all we got were variations on ‘Aaaaa!’ and ‘They’re everywhere!!!’, plus a lot of blaster fire.”

“It’s possible they withdrew after I was captured,” Skids said. “As it turns out, Tyrest has a reason to be holding a grudge against me.”

“Hey, if Mister Pokey Hat weren’t going around the bend without any brakes, the boss wouldn’t have given us the mission,” the newcomer said, almost offended. 

“The boss is Prowl,” Rodimus, Tailgate, and Chromedome all said in unison.

“Didn’t say that!”

“Didn’t deny it either,” Brainstorm pointed out.

“Does anyone else think it’s odd that, with a self-described ‘army’ of Legislators at his disposal, we haven’t run into any guards?” Perceptor broke in.

“They’re probably fighting the Circle,” Drift said absently. 

“I hope they’re losing,” Ratchet said. Whether Drift was right about the Circle fighting or not, Cyclonus and Whirl were still unaccounted for, and there was no way they were going down quietly. “The more guards go down somewhere else, the fewer we have to deal with. Do they all have guns like that?” he asked Chromedome, pointing at his new weapon. It was a seriously impressive piece of nastiness.

“Yeah. We claimed these from the ones guarding our cell when we broke out.”

“It was a really cool escape, too!” Tailgate nearly made Ratchet drop him with his enthusiastic hand-waving. “Did you know Getaway is a real live escapologist?”

“I didn’t even know that was his name,” Ratchet said as the newcomer turned around. Assuming that  _ was _ his name, since if he worked for Prowl, that meant he was probably Spec Ops. If he and Skids had been working a mission together, Ratchet’s suspicions that some of Skids’ learned skills came from that sort of work might actually be correct after all. “You broke everyone out?”

Getaway shrugged. “Oh, you know. Seen one cell managed by a crazy with a voltage fetish, seen them all. I really thought it was time to move the tour along.”

“Speaking of crazy,” Rodimus interrupted, “let’s look lively, folks! Tyrest’s control room is just ahead, and he’s overdue for a good hard kick in the aft!”

Foregoing any subtlety, Rodimus, Drift and Chromedome flung the doors open. 

“Tyrest! Where’s Ultra Magnus!”

None of them waited for an answer. Skids opened up with a spat of plasma fire, while both Rodimus and Chromedome brought their more unwieldy chain guns to bear on the single figure occupying the room. Drift circled, trying to get close enough to use his sword and handgun.

“I really was hoping we could keep this civilized,” Ratchet heard Tyrest mutter.  _ Something _ activated and Ratchet’s entire frame collapsed. He tried to at least grab Tailgate, cushion his fall, but he couldn’t move at all. “As for my poor, flawed Ultra Magnus… He met the fate deserved by any who dare threaten me. I turned him into a tripping hazard.” 

_ “No!  _ Magnus!”

Rodimus’ vision must not have been obstructed by anything; Ratchet couldn’t see anything but Tailgate’s shoulder in front of his face and Drift in his peripheral vision, but the anguish in Rodimus’ voice was sparkwrenching. 

“And now that you cannot interfere with my plans…”

“What did you do?” That sounded like Skids.

“Simply broadcast a message deep in your heads, convincing you you can’t move,” Tyrest expounded happily. “It’s so convincing that I can tell you it’s a trick, and you’ll still refuse to believe me.”

Hearing it, Ratchet tried to believe it was a trick, just like Tyrest had said, but he couldn’t. There was something wrong with his frame. He couldn’t move.

Not everyone was so convinced. In his peripheral vision, Ratchet saw Drift push himself to his hands and feet, then to his knees. He moved like gravity had increased fifty-fold, but he was moving, reaching for his handgun.

“How annoying,” Tyrest commented. “No matter. You’ll die with the rest of your filthy kind soon enough, just as soon as I…” 

_ Va-Shoom! _

Drift screamed, and Ratchet heard Chromedome, Brainstorm, and Getaway join him.

“What’s wrong? Drift!” Ratchet still couldn’t move, but he needed to do something! There was a sickly yellow smoke streaming from the corners of Drift’s mouth and optics, and he could hear Rodimus yelling, “Stop it! You’re killing them!”

“Of course I am — but not just them. Every single mech who was constructed cold, every last sinful, unnatural spark no matter where they are in the galaxy, will be extinguished. Our mistake is undone. And now,” there was another strange sound, and a bright blue light behind Tyrest drew Ratchet’s optics away from Drift, “the portal opens! Primus, the Guiding Hand, the Knights of Cybertron! Can you hear them singing?”

Ratchet blinked, realizing he could see Tyrest and Rodimus in front of him now. No one could move, so where had Tailgate…? 

“All I hear is you, and you are so full of—!”

“Gotcha!” The little white minibot dropped down on Tyrest’s head, clinging to his spiked crown and reaching around toward his staff. “How about we switch this off?”

Suddenly Ratchet could move again. Immediately he leapt to Drift’s side, assessing his condition. Not good. Very, very not good, and that same yellow smoke was rising from the others as they continued to scream. He heard a scuffle over by where Tyrest was standing, and Rodimus started spouting more clever dialogue— “Rodimus! We need to do something,  _ now!  _ They’ve got kliks left at this rate, at the most!”

“There’s nothing you can do!” Tyrest shouted, whirling to face them all with Tailgate helpless in his arms. “The killswitch is irreversible! Now all of you, get back down on the ground or I lobotomize the ship’s mascot.”

“Shoot him!” Tailgate cried out. “Just shoot him! Don’t worry about me!”

Rodimus had his chain gun levelled at Tyrest, but hesitated. “Tailgate—”

“I’m already dead! Terminal, end-stage Cybercrosis! So hurry up and save everyone!”

Before Rodimus could react to that, either shoot through Tailgate or hesitate again, Tyrest’s torso erupted in blasterfire as one of the Legislator’s chain guns ripped through him. He fell, dropping Tailgate, who curled up at the base of the portal thing.

A tiny green mech, toting a chain gun larger than he was almost effortlessly, stood behind the fallen Tyrest. “Fully deserved.”

_ “Magnus?!” _

Oh. So that was _ two _ secrets Ratchet no longer had to worry about keeping then. Ignoring Rodimus’ barrage of questions for the supposedly dead mech, he moved over to check Chromedome, then Brainstorm. They were no longer screaming at the top of their vocalizers, but that was only because their vocalizers had shut down, overwhelmed by excess feedback. “Someone  _ really _ needs to do something about the killswitch!”

“I’m on it,” Perceptor said, rising to his feet and striding over to the console.

“How long do they have?” Skids asked, standing anxiously over Getaway. Ratchet came over to check him next, finding him in even worse shape than the others. He’d mentioned someone with a voltage fetish earlier… At least, and Ratchet couldn’t believe he was thinking this, the torture Drift had endured hadn’t stressed the systems that were threatening to burn out now.

“He’s got about six kliks until total braindeath,” Ratchet calculated quickly. “Assuming his spark lasts that long. The others have maybe a klik or two more.”

There was nothing medical Ratchet could do for any of them. They were dying and there was  _ nothing _ he could do… He looked up to where Perceptor was already hooking Rodimus up to a truly frightening number of wires coming out of the console. “…every cold constructed spark has an identification code copied directly from the Matrix, which is what the killswitch is interfering with,” he was explaining to Rodimus and the tiny Ultra Magnus. “We don’t have time for me to figure out how to safely turn it off. This half Matrix has a different code, so we’re going to replace all the codes on the cold constructed sparks with it, so that the killswitch can’t interfere…” He started going into the math of it, and Ratchet saw Rodimus’ optics glaze over.

“Just hurry. We can’t lose them.”

“This may kill you. It will certainly burn out the Matrix.”

“Just  _ do it.” _

The scream Rodimus let out when Perceptor flipped the switch was loud enough to rival those of the others when the killswitch had gone off, and Ratchet flinched at both the sound and the blinding light arcing from the Matrix. Something shattered, but Ratchet didn’t have time to turn and look before he saw—

“It’s working! Whatever you’re doing, his life signs are improving!” Ratchet started retracing his steps, moving from Getaway back to Brainstorm. The yellow smoke was dissipating, and his vitals were stabilizing. “Brainstorm too!”

Swerve let out a triumphant whoop. “Thank Primus!”

Ratchet glanced over at him and saw he was tucked aside out of the way looking after Tailgate. Good; neither of them belonged here, and Tailgate probably needed a friend after that revelation. 

A quick check on Chromedome’s condition proved he was rapidly improving as well, and when he returned to Drift’s side his systems were safely within normal operating parameters. “Everyone’s going to be okay.”

Except, perhaps, Rodimus. Rodimus didn’t look okay. He hung limply by the wires connected to the burned out, broken Matrix. Ratchet saw shards of the quantum crystal that had once been part of the relic scattered over the floor. The urge to get up, leave the patients who were rapidly stabilizing to attend the one who could be dying, could already  _ be  _ dead, was overwhelming. Ratchet stood to do so—

BAM! The last of the doors to the audience chamber flew off their moorings and golden mechs, each carrying a massive sword and identical chain guns, flooded into the room.

“What the heck are those things?!” Ratchet exclaimed, reaching for Drift’s fallen handgun. Automatically he checked it — Decepticon make, high recoil, ten shots, none missing, Drift probably had extra ammo but Ratchet didn’t — as the things advanced.

“Legislators!” Perceptor called out, forgoing subtlety and yanking the captain down and into cover. Rodimus grimaced in pain — not dead — but didn’t otherwise move. Perceptor snatched up the speedster’s fallen chain gun and opened fire on the advancing horde.

Those who’d been affected by the killswitch weren’t in any condition to get up and defend themselves. Brainstorm was mostly out of the way where he’d fallen, so Ratchet pushed Drift closer to the wall while Skids grabbed Getaway and Chromedome, then they both shifted their focus to the fight. There were a  _ lot  _ of Legislators in the room, and still more coming, all chanting “One, one. One, one.”

“What is this ‘one’ business?” Skids asked, burying a sword to the hilt in one of the Legislator’s blank faces before whirling and firing off several precision shots with Drift’s assault rifle.

“The Legislators were created to enforce the law,” Ultra Magnus called back, joining the fray. A swath of golden forms fell to his chain gun. “They must be calling out the name of a statute written to protect the Chief Justice at all costs.”

Frag, that meant they were  _ all _ going to be coming here.

“Since when is there a law like that?” 

“Since whenever he thought to add it! Tyrest has been using the computer terminal here to amend the law as he saw fit.”

Ratchet probably would have laughed at Ultra Magnus’ familiar indignation over someone abusing the legal system if the situation had been less dire. As it was, he was a little bit distracted by the fact that he’d run out of bullets. He cursed.

“Here,” Skids kicked Chromedome’s chain gun over to him, and Ratchet picked it up and fired off several rounds in quick succession. It barely made a dent in the number of opponents, though it did buy him a little bit of breathing space.

They just kept coming. The four of them weren’t going to be able to hold them off for long.

Then, miraculously—

“They’ve stopped!” Skids blurted out as, sure enough, every last one of the Legislators inexplicably froze in place, ceasing all attacks. “They’ve all just stopped!”

“But why?” Perceptor looked like he was just waiting for them to start up again, and Ratchet didn’t blame him.

“Because!” Tailgate’s voice rang out across the room. Everyone turned to look at him, standing on top of Tyrest’s computer. “I just repealed the law! All of it! If they were fighting to enforce the law, then I figured without anything to enforce they’d just… just…” He trailed off, then proceeded to illustrate his point rather effectively by falling on his face.

“Tailgate! Buddy!” Swerve ran out from wherever he’d hidden himself to the other minibot’s side. 

“Is he right?” Perceptor asked Ultra Magnus. “Will they stay frozen now?”

“I believe so.” Ultra Magnus set down his gun and went over to the computer, presumably to check Tailgate’s work.

He was too short to reach the keyboard.

Cursing, Ultra Magnus dragged one of the fallen Legislators to the console and used its smoking chassis as a boost to climb up there. “Of course I cannot approve of this as an actual alteration to the law,” he muttered, scrolling through the first lines, the ones that apparently set down that what followed was to be obeyed, “but I have to agree. As written, this system is completely invalid.”

“Excellent.” Perceptor dropped his gun and was at Rodimus’ side immediately, making it much easier for Ratchet to justify going over to Tailgate first. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Swerve asked, clinging to Tailgate’s arm as Ratchet tried to reposition him to get a better scan. “He’s not really dying, is he? What he said about Cybercrosis, the big C, that was just to throw everyone off, right?”

“Unfortunately not.” It was almost certainly the reason he’d collapsed. His earlier issues with walking indicated the beginnings of the end, where paralysis set in.

“But why didn’t he tell anyone?”  _ Why didn’t he tell me?  _ Ratchet could practically hear him asking.

“Maybe he didn’t want to be treated differently by his friends.” Ratchet put a hand on Swerve’s shoulder, simultaneously a comforting gesture and a way to get him to move so he could properly scan Tailgate. The readings he got back weren’t pleasant, but they also weren’t unexpected. “He’ll probably wake up soon, but he won’t be able to walk. Frankly I’m surprised he managed to do as much as he did just now, especially when everyone else was pinned by that… whatever it was.”

“He said he was broadcasting a signal,” Tailgate said weakly, visor flickering back online. “But I think my reception is starting to go, because it didn’t affect me. Who’d have thought dying would wind up saving my life?”

“All our lives,” Swerve said, just beating Ratchet to saying it. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“I have a few things that will make him— make you more comfortable when we get back to the  _ Lost Light,”  _ Ratchet told them both. “For now, just stay with him, Swerve. I need to check on the others.”

“He’s not dead,” Perceptor announced as Ratchet approached. “His spark has not yet stabilized from the strain, and I’m uncertain if the remains of the Matrix should be removed or not.”

“Let me take a look.” Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure what to look  _ for,  _ having never dealt with this exact sort of injury before, but he knew how to improvise, and, potentially more important in this case, how to work around the Matrix. Not that there was a lot of it left. “It looks like it’s safe to remove,” he said after confirming that none of the connections leading to it were live. “There’s no activity in it, and the physical remains have more sharp edges than I want to worry about that close to other vital systems.”

Perceptor nodded and began picking shards of crystal out of Rodimus’ chest with his long, dexterous fingers. “I was uncertain. There are unconfirmed datapoints,” stories, “of the Matrix sustaining its wielder, including one from Rodimus himself, and given its nature I could not be one-hundred percent certain it was completely dead, despite appearances.”

“Having seen the thing supposedly inert and ‘dead’ before, I can confirm that this is a new level of dead for it.” Ratchet let Perceptor go after the more delicately lodged pieces. His hands were shaking ever so slightly from the renewed pain in his wrists from the gun recoil, and he didn’t want to chance damaging Rodimus further. “Was there really no other way?”

“The killswitch is still active, broadcasting its signal through the now-broken quantum link it had with all cold constructed sparks in existence,” Perceptor said, matter of factly. “I do not even know how it’s doing it, except that it works somewhat akin to the Matrix itself — which I also do not understand the workings of. It could have taken a joor, or a lifetime, to turn it off safely.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the results,” Ratchet said. Honestly, the fact that Perceptor had come up with a solution at all, especially under such pressure and in so little time, was nothing short of a miracle. “It’s just… I know what the Matrix meant to Rodimus, to the quest.” And, though he absolutely wasn’t going to admit it, to everyone else, himself included. It was the  _ Matrix.  _ Already broken in half, now that half was gone. Rodimus had sacrificed it and very nearly himself without a second thought to save everyone.

“The Matrix,” Drift’s voice rose up softly, making Ratchet jump, “wasn’t what was leading us to the Knights of Cybertron.” He pushed himself up to lean weakly against the wall. “It was always Rodimus.”

It was such a Drift thing to say that Ratchet couldn’t help chuckling. “Guess I’d better not let him die then.”

Not that Rodimus was dying. Anymore. Once they got the majority of the Matrix out of the way, Ratchet could get a decent scan of the captain’s spark. It was weak, but getting stronger. He needed rest, and fuel, preferably back on the  _ Lost Light _ where Ratchet could stick an IV in one of his fuel lines so he’d get both at once, but he’d be okay. As long as nothing  _ else  _ happened.

Brainstorm and Chromedome were both coming around now too, groggily booting up. Getaway was still unconscious. “Shouldn’t we be getting everyone to a medbay or something?” Skids asked, looking around at just how many members of their team were on the ground. 

“There are facilities here,” Ultra Magnus said, but Ratchet cut him off.

“No. While the medbay here has plenty of supplies and equipment,” and implements of torture and a decapitated dead body, “what it doesn’t have is the one thing I need most right now — other medics.” He held up his patched wrists. “I’m not fit to perform any complex repairs outside of an emergency, and even if I was, I’m only one mech.”

“Ratchet’s hurt as badly as the rest of—” Drift’s head whipped to look over at the still gaping entrance to the control room. Skids leveled his weapon at the door while Ultra Magnus, Perceptor and Ratchet scrambled to retrieve their chain guns. Chromedome pulled weakly at one of the Legislators, trying to get a new weapon he could use. “No. Wait—”

Cyclonus looked into the control room cautiously, obviously familiar with the hair-trigger reflexes of soldiers in the field. “We are not enemies,” he announced.

“We?”

“Cyclonus!”

It was nearly comical how quickly the dour mech whirled at the sound of Tailgate calling his name. For just a nanoklik Ratchet swore he could actually see the shock and devastation on his scarred face before the impassive, angry walls came back up. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, stalking over to the two minibots.

“Star Saber brought them with me,” Skids answered for them. “Sorry for getting them involved.”

“I saved them,” Tailgate chirped at the same time. “Also, I can’t move.” He giggled.

A blue mech roughly the size of the Magnus armor, and with kibble indicating he was a large jet, strode into the room after Cyclonus. He surveyed the carnage, then started working his way over to the three recovering cold constructed mechs. He stopped when Chromedome managed to finally break off the Legislator’s arm gun and pointed it vaguely in his direction.

Drift was pushing himself against the wall, trying to stand. “Dai Atlas…”

“Don’t get up,” the huge mech chided. “I have something that belongs to you.” He presented it to Drift, holding it carefully by the sheath.

Drift let himself slide back down to the floor. “Thank you.” He took the Great Sword and held it to his chest. Ratchet couldn’t see (or believe in) auras, but the weight he’d been carrying since Theophany was almost visible as it finally lifted from his shoulders. “You’re alive. I thought, I sensed you were, but I couldn’t be sure. I only knew too many of you would die before we found you. Is Axe—?” He couldn’t finish, and Ratchet remembered Axe was one of those Drift had dreamed about specifically dying.

“He is alive. As are many others.”

Ratchet felt a surge of relief on Drift’s behalf, then narrowed his optics at Dai Atlas. “You’re hurt,” he said bluntly. “How many of you are in need of critical care?”

Dai Atlas turned his crimson gaze on Ratchet, examining him. “Too many, doctor. I chose to fly because I had a duty to perform, but the others are staying together, along with your crewmate. I didn’t catch his name; the empurata vict—”

“Don’t call Whirl that,” Drift interrupted. 

Dai Atlas looked back to Drift for a moment, and Ratchet wasn’t at all sure if he acquiesced or was humoring him, but he nodded. “Whirl then.”

If Whirl had stayed behind, he had to be in  _ really  _ bad shape. Which probably meant that Dai Atlas wasn’t wrong about many of the other members of the Circle urgently needing medical attention. “Are we able to establish contact with the  _ Lost Light?”  _ Ratchet asked the tiny Ultra Magnus. “Unless the attack compromised the ship, I’d really like to start moving everyone back there. This place will keep until we get ourselves patched up.”

Ultra Magnus looked longingly down at his hands and sighed, more expressive like this than he was behind the armor. “I’ll call them, though perhaps it would be better, as hard as it is to admit, if Drift spoke with Hound.”

“Yeah.” Drift started pulling himself up the wall again. Dai Atlas looked away, as though he believed it impolite to watch his fellow warrior struggle. Or offer to help. “Call them. I’ll be over in a klik.”

“You shouldn’t even be standing yet,” Ratchet said, perfectly willing not just to offer help, but to insist Drift accept it. He walked over and wrapped an arm around Drift’s waist, taking some of his weight and steadying him. “Let alone walking.”

Drift didn’t try to pull away or do it on his own. He just leaned into the offered assistance. “Thanks Ratchet.” 

Together they shuffled over to the large control screen. Ultra Magnus stepped off of the downed Legislator as Fort Max’s harried expression appeared on the screen. He took in the scene — as much of it as he could, which included Drift and Ratchet — “Commander. I’ll get Acting Commander Hound.”

“If he’s busy,” Drift interrupted Fortress Maximus’ retreat, “I’ll take a report from you. What’s the status of the  _ Lost Light?” _

“Intact,” Fort Max answered succinctly. “Enemy forces have been repelled for the moment, and about half of the crew is down, including Blaster and Red Alert,” which was probably why Fort Max was acting as communications officer, “but things seem to be stabilizing.”

“Situation’s about the same here,” Drift confirmed. “Send the Rod Pod down with Hoist and an extra pilot for our shuttle, and have First Aid prep a triage area near the shuttle bays. And have someone from security start clearing out some barracks rooms. We’ve got about two hundred mechs here, in various states of injured, to get back to the ship.”

“Long story short, we found Ultra Magnus, we found the Circle of Light, and we stopped the bad guys,” Ratchet summarized. “We aren’t in great shape, but the fighting is over.”

“Understood. We’ll have the shuttle prepped and on its way ASAP.”

“That was a summary worthy of Rodimus,” Drift said once the call ended. 

“I just imagined what he would have said if he wasn’t unconscious from heroically saving us all,” Ratchet said blandly. “I guess that confirms that the killswitch’s effect really was widespread.”

“Did you think it wasn’t?” Perceptor asked.

“No, but confirmation is still nice.” Unfortunate, since it meant anyone cold constructed on the  _ Lost Light  _ was currently out of commission, but good to know. “Damn. This means Ambulon isn’t going to be able to help us.”

“We’ll manage,” Drift said with a fond bunt against Ratchet’s shoulder. “Once the  _ Leading Light _ is repaired, you can start drafting people to help with the bumps and dents. The whole crew should be up to date on their basic first aid.” He looked over to Dai Atlas. “How about you, sir? You have a headcount yet? Any medics or first aid trained mechs?”

“Several have first aid training, but we have no doctors and only a couple nurses left.”

Drift’s expression fell. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

Ratchet was sorry too, even without having known any of them personally. “Let’s get everyone together outside,” he said. “I’ll do what I can to help them triage and patch up the worst injuries, then we’ll get the most critical patients on the shuttle when it arrives.”

“I’ve got the captain,” Perceptor announced. Ratchet looked over and saw him arranging the last trailing wires so they wouldn’t be in the way when he picked up him up. Tailgate, meanwhile, was already in Cyclonus’ arms. “What about the others?”

“If you are able to carry Getaway,” Ultra Magnus said to Skids, “then I will bring the other two.”

“Both of them?” Ratchet could feel the surprise in Drift’s field as he took in Ultra Magnus’ miniature frame compared to Chromedome and Brainstorm, while the mechs in question protested unconvincingly that they could walk. 

“He’ll be fine,” Ratchet said confidently. “Now, let’s get you outside.”

They were a sorry group that trekked out of the labyrinthine fortress, led primarily by Perceptor. Fortunately, once they were outside, it wasn’t too much farther a distance to where the rest of the Circle had set themselves up. No one here was suffering the aftereffects of the killswitch, but there were plenty of regular injuries to go around, some of them quite severe, and all Ratchet could think when he finally spotted Whirl was, “How are you still  _ standing?!” _

Whirl looked down at his own pitted, scorched and torn arms and tilted his head. “I’m not sure actually. But it was a great fight! All the slicey and dicey and shooting.” He swayed. “Whoa. Trippy.” He started humming the Happy Weasels’ winners anthem. “Ap!” He nearly fell, whirling to face one of the Circle members, who had a red medic’s cross on his arm modified by a nurse’s dots. “What did I say about poking me?”

“What did  _ I  _ say about walking around?” the nurse shot back, though he sounded more resigned than angry. He must have already worked out that with Whirl, cooperation was pretty much hit or miss. “You can’t afford to have any more pieces fall off.”

“Pfft!”

“Whirl,” Ratchet said, waiting for his head to swivel back in his direction, “why don’t do you me a favor and sit down so I can find you easily when the shuttle gets here?” He absolutely needed to be among the first group going back to the  _ Lost Light,  _ and not just because he was injured to the point he really shouldn’t be able to move at all. “I’m sure First Aid would rather see you in as few pieces as possible.”

“Oh hey! I got Firstie a souvenir!” Whirl crowed,  ~~collapsing~~ lowering himself to the ground into a gangly sprawl. He reached into his subspace and pulled out most of a Legislator. “Think he’d like doing an autopsy? I mean, I know how it died — I killed it. But there’s just  _ so many ways _ I could have killed it, so it’s not exactly cheating to tell him that.”

Ratchet felt Drift’s frame shaking with slightly hysterical laughter.

“You know what?” Memories of First Aid cheerfully dissecting corpses after the fight on Temptoria flashed through Ratchet’s processor. “He’ll probably love it.” 

“Awesomesauce!” The Circle were mostly giving Whirl a good amount of space, which Whirl didn’t seem to mind as he subspaced the corpse again. Instead, he clacked his claws together happily — not at all menacingly, though Ratchet saw several people take an additional step away — “So how’d it go? Obviously we won, because we are all that awesome, but did we rescue Ultra Stiff-pants? We’re not holding a funeral for anyone, are we? I hate funerals.”

“Yes we found Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet said, nodding over his shoulder to the tiny green and white mech working to get people organized, who looked up at the sound of his name. “By the way, is the armor intact somewhere? Or does it need repairs too?”

Red optics widened. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. Give me a little more credit.” 

“But— but,” Ultra Magnus sounded flustered, and as soon as Whirl caught on, his optic widened in what looked to Ratchet like delight at the stammering.  _ “No one’s _ supposed to know. There are attention deflectors inside to make sure I’m not seen.”

“That worked for all of five nanokliks. What kind of doctor would I be if I let something like that make me miss critical things about my patients?”

“You never said anything…” Ultra Magnus looked a little lost.

“Why would I have said anything? It’s not exactly the sort of thing that comes up in regular conversation, is it? And you managed to avoid being injured badly enough for it to matter. Until now,” Ratchet said pointedly. “So. Do I need to fix the armor, or not?”

“Tyrest pulled me out of it, so I am fairly certain it is intact,” Ultra Magnus answered, still in a daze. “As much as I want it back on as soon as possible, I am not sure I would trust it until someone’s gone through its coding and removed the recall signal he used to bring me here.”

Well, that explained a lot. “Probably a good idea,” Ratchet agreed. “I’ll let you know when I have time, if you haven’t found someone else to take care of it by then.” Now that it wasn’t a secret, Perceptor would probably do a faster job of it than Ratchet could.

Ultra Magnus nodded and turned back to getting everyone organized. Dai Atlas joined him, backing up his orders with his own authority among the surviving members of the Circle. 

Drift nudged Ratchet. “Just put me down next to Whirl and Roddy,” who was still out cold and being carefully monitored by Perceptor. The captain hadn’t yet regained consciousness. Despite the lack of visible injuries, Ratchet wanted him on the first shuttle up because who  _ knew _ what the medical consequences of the Matrix exploding in his chest would be. “I know you’re busy.”

“Only a little bit.” Ratchet made sure the ground was clear before lowering Drift down beside Rodimus, mindful of the Great Sword. “Don’t wear yourself out.”

“I thought I’d go drive a racing course just because,” Drift drawled back. He didn’t flop, but he pulled his legs in, sitting right where Ratchet put him. “I feel fantastic, you know.”

“Yes, because torture is so well known for its restorative properties.”

“Torture? Is that why the lot of you are lying around all useless?” Whirl said tactlessly.

“Yes and no.” Ratchet had been referring to what Pharma had done to Drift specifically, but while being targeted by the killswitch was supposed to have been fatal, the end result had wound up being something akin to torture. “I’ll let you explain,” he said, patting Drift’s shoulder. “Time for me to get on with triage.”

“As long as you explain why Ultra Magnus is a tiny mech in a suit of armor later.”

“A tiny mech  _ with a mustache!”  _ Whirl cackled gleefully. “We sooooo need to update the Team Ref merch!”

“Oh please no,” Ultra Magnus muttered while the rest of the away team cackled and cheered on Whirl’s suggestion.

Hiding his smile, Ratchet left his crew and went over to the nurse who’d been ~~harassed by~~ looking after Whirl. “I’m Ratchet,” he introduced himself. “I’ve got a couple of critical cases over there, but for the moment everyone’s stable. How’s your lot doing?”

“Dactyl,” the mech replied. “Ferritin and I have been doing what we can, but we’re only medic-trained assistants, not full medics. Everyone with unstable vitals is over there with him while I patch leaks and try to keep anyone else from joining them.”

“I’ll let you keep doing that then, and go help out over there.” Moving on, Ratchet introduced himself to Ferritin and asked for the rundown on the critical cases. One by one he started assessing them, separating them into two groups: “it can wait” and “get to a medbay right away”. He then, perhaps ironically, wound up devoting most of his time to the former group. Most of those in the latter needed surgeries he couldn’t perform without better tools and steadier hands, so he focused on making sure the mechs he’d be leaving behind had a fighting chance of surviving until another shuttle run could be made.

It was a distinct relief to hear the sound of engines overhead.

.

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	27. Chapter 27

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.

It seemed to take forever to get everyone treated for their injuries and installed in medberths or quarters. Fortunately, most of the Circle were able to be moved to barracks as soon as they were out of surgery. There were only two still snoozing in the medbay. 

All the medbay berths were occupied, including those in ISO, though the door wasn’t sealed at the moment, allowing visitors and medics to go in and out freely. That was where Tailgate was, being attended to by Cyclonus. Whirl and Ambulon were tangled up back there as well in a pile of exhaustion, being used as a Whirl-bot perch by most of those not contentedly plugged into their recharge unit out in the main part of the medbay — sedated, in Whirl’s case. He needed more than a few newly fabricated parts. He wasn’t asleep though. Ratchet occasionally heard him humming, talking to himself, or clacking his claws together in an off-kilter rhythm.

Blueray was in several pieces himself. Sedated also, but unrestrained. Ratchet had gotten unexpectedly emotional when he’d seen all seven of the cooperating Decepticons on the list of casualties. Of course, all of them were MTOs and had gotten hit by the effects of the killswitch, but most of them had injuries from before that as well. When the Legislators had broken into their quarters, all of them had taken up arms to defend the ship. More significantly, none of them had taken the opportunity to either escape or attack the crew. Blueray was the worst off for it, having been the first to attack the Legislators — with nothing more than his claws, since none of them could transform — so the others could grab chain guns and swords for their own use.

Ratchet was proud of them! 

He was also proud of the dumb Whirl-bots. The medbay had been a primary target for the Legislators, but even though they “weren’t weapons”, Brainstorm apparently hadn’t been able to resist training their AIs to attack on command. Between them, Red Alert’s security system, and the two medics’ defense, none of the Legislators had even gotten into the medbay. They were officially Ratchet’s favorite pests, not that he’d ever say as much out loud.

The captain was still in a medberth, though he was now awake and whining. First Aid was unmoved, proving unsurprisingly immune to whining. Rodimus was staying where he was, while Drift (and, when he could get a break, Ratchet) took up the last berth in the medbay. All the cold constructed mechs seemed to be recovering quickly with no lasting side effects from the killswitch, Drift included, but the effects of Pharma’s torture were not going away on their own. All in all, First Aid had done a very,  _ very _ good job managing his first major incident as the primary medic. 

More than good enough, in fact, for Ratchet to make a decision.

With Rodimus and Drift both in the medbay, it was relatively easy to call an officer’s meeting while First Aid and the new nurses went around checking on everyone. The only real difficulty would have been fitting a mech as large as Ultra Magnus in the crowded space, but he had the option now of leaving the Magnus armor behind. Wearing only his inner shell, which First Aid and Ratchet had worked together to repair, he joined the others in the corner of the room.

“Will this meeting be long?” he asked, sounding a bit frazzled. He shooed away an inquisitive Whirl-bot with a dirty look at its retreating tailfins. “I’m very busy.”

“Yeah, me too, apparently. Who knew resting was so time-consuming?” Rodimus whined.

Ratchet ignored that. “I just wanted to discuss something with all of you before making an official announcement.”

“I have an idea where this is going,” Drift said tiredly. He had a Whirl-bot in his lap, petting it like a cyberkitten. Parts of his torso and leg armor were still stacked under the berth, awaiting First Aid’s declaration that the injuries underneath had healed enough to put them back on. 

“Please tell me we’re not here to discuss your pillow talk,” Rodimus, well, whined.

“I don’t need all three of you for that,” Ratchet said. “No, what I wanted to talk about is the post of Chief Medical Officer on this ship.”

The three of them exchanged looks. Rodimus was the first to break out in a grin. “Retirement party!”

Ultra Magnus sighed. “I’ll draw up the paperwork.”

“And here I thought I might have to convince you.”

“Okay, one, I trust your judgment, and two, I can  _ see  _ how ready he is for the job. Side effect of all this lying around,” Rodimus said. “This whole mess has been a great proving ground for a bunch of people, and First Aid’s right up there at the top of the list.”

“He has handled managing this disaster quite well,” Ultra Magnus said. Ratchet thought the words should rumble, but of course Ultra Magnus rumbled because of his bulk, the armor he wasn’t wearing right now. 

“Congratulations, Ratchet,” Drift said softly. 

“Is this meeting over, then? Because I think this meeting’s over. Which means I’ll just go…” Rodimus started to ease himself off of the medberth.

“Wrong,” Ratchet said swiftly, stretching an arm out to block him. “You’re not going anywhere, and there is one other thing I’d rather not remind everyone of while I have you all here.” He looked around to make sure no one was near enough to overhear before continuing, quietly, “Obviously Tyrest isn’t going to be able to weigh in on the issue of incarcerating Phase Sixers.”

All four of them looked at each other, a little lost. They’d been depending on getting  _ some _ sort of ruling from the Chief Justice.

“Ratchet,” Drift said quietly. “There isn’t a choice anymore, no higher authority to consult. We need to protect the ship.”

“I know.” He did, he really did, but it still felt  _ wrong. _

“Priorities, people,” Rodimus said, snapping his fingers for their attention. “Right now he is safely contained and isn’t an immediate threat to anyone — in other words, it’s still not a time sensitive matter. But there’s a whooooole bunch of other stuff that is, so let’s square that all up first, yeah? We’ll reconvene and put the Overlord thing to rest,” and Ratchet could practically hear the writing on the wall that that would mean  _ literally  _ putting him to rest, “when we’re back on our feet.”

The sudden tension released and all four of them seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Agreed.” Ultra Magnus nodded. Drift said nothing, but nodded when Rodimus looked askance at him.

Ratchet nodded too.  _ “Now  _ the meeting is over,” he said.

“Good. Great. So now I’m sure we all have things to do—”

“Sorry, captain.” Ratchet’s arm didn’t budge. “You have to stay in bed and that’s that. Medic’s orders.”

“But you’re retired!”

Drift giggled at his outburst. The Whirl-bot in his lap took off and buzzed around, bumping its nosecone into Ratchet affectionately.

“Technically not until the paperwork’s signed,” Ratchet retorted, ignoring the pest. “Though if you insist, I can call First Aid over and have him give the order instead.”

Rodimus did not insist. He flopped back down on his medberth, muttering dark imprecations about tyrannical medics. 

“So, Ultra Magnus, you’ll— oh. He’s gone,” Ratchet said, surprised to find the mech had vanished without him noticing. Oh well. He wasn’t the sort to actually need a reminder to get the paperwork done after committing to doing so; Ratchet just wasn’t used to  _ not _ noticing when he  entered or left the room, given his usual size. 

“Well at least move me to the other side of Whirl,” Rodimus whined. “I don’t want to hear any more of your pillow talk. At least Whirl says things I can repeat later to make Ambulon blush. You two are just all sorts of lovey dovey.”

“Is that really so terrible?” But Ratchet went ahead and moved Rodimus. He didn’t want to deal with his commentary any more than Roddy wanted to listen to them! “But you have to stay in bed.”

“Tyrant. I’d appeal to First Aid, but he’s  _ worse.” _ More whining.

“All part of my evil plan to hand the medbay over to someone even more dastardly than me.” Actually, Ratchet was looking forward to telling First Aid the news, but that could wait until later. The other medic was busy right now, and Ratchet had things he should be doing too. He went back to Drift to check on him first. “Do you need anything?” he asked.

“A new sword,” Drift said matter of factly, even though he knew that wasn’t something Ratchet could give him right now. “Actually, if you see Dai Atlas, could you send him my way? And if you see Skids, tell him I want my assault rifle back.”

Ratchet chuckled. “Will do.” He leaned forward to bunt their helms together, then stepped back. “Call me if anything changes, alright? I won’t be leaving the ship.” 

“I will.” Drift grinned. “But shouldn’t I be calling First Aid?”

“Cute.” 

Chuckling at Drift’s sass, Ratchet pulled up the rather haphazard medbay schedule. With so many things going on, only two medics, and a pair of nurses who didn’t know how things were run, it had devolved into a basic checklist of things to do with the times they needed to be done by, please sign your name when you take on a given duty. Seeing that a shuttle full of looted supplies from Luna 1 was due to arrive, Ratchet signed his name next to inspection and inventory. Not a glamorous job, but it needed to be done before those supplies could be used to repair injured mechs here, and unlike the salvage taken in the aftermath of Temptoria, they needed some of them rather critically.

He made his way to the hangar, arriving with just enough time to watch the shuttle approach and maneuver its way inside from the other side of the airlock. He wasn’t the only one waiting for it, as Trailcutter and Red Alert were already in position by the door.

Red Alert was still wearing the anti-possession charm.

“You don’t touch  _ anything _ until we’ve cleared the cargo of booby traps,” Red Alert stated officiously. Trailcutter just shrugged ruefully, and Ratchet was inclined to go along with him. He didn’t want any booby traps going off in his face, and given some of the salvage was from Pharma’s medbay… Ratchet shook his head.  _ Now _ who was being paranoid?

Though the crazed mech  _ had _ thought Ratchet would wire bombs into his own hands.

“Understood. Let us know when we have the all clear.”

Red Alert narrowed his optics suspiciously, but before he could question if their easy acquiescence heralded impending treason, the hanger finished repressurising and the door unlocked. Ratchet waited outside, but looked in to see the salvage team emerging from the shuttle.

“Hello!” Rung said cheerfully as he stepped down first, surprising Ratchet with his presence. “Where would you like us to wait?”

“Just outside with Ratchet,” Red Alert said. “Come on, Trailbreaker—”

“Trailcutter.”

“—I need you on hand to contain any explosions.”

“Joy.”

Rung gave them an amused look — apparently he thought Red Alert was doing better — as he exited the hanger bay with Fortress Maximus close on his heels. A klik later, Skids followed, casting a harried look back at Red Alert. “Yeesh,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. “I  _ do _ know how to look for booby traps!” The words were half said to them and half yelled back towards the shuttle. Red Alert undoubtedly heard him, but didn’t bother yelling a response back. “I even know why now,” Skids added, more quietly.

“Does it help, knowing? Even without any of the actual memories?” As far as Ratchet knew, nothing Getaway had said had triggered any memories. All he’d been able to do was provide explanations.

“Yes and no. I still have a whole,” Skids made a waving gesture with one hand,  _ “past _ I don’t know about. That’s kind of disconcerting. On the other hand, when I pick up a tool and realize I know how to use it, or worse, torture someone with it, I know why now.”

“That would be an uncomfortable thing to know without knowing where the knowledge came from, wouldn’t it?” Though knowing that his education had come in the form of Ops training probably wasn’t as reassuring as discovering he’d had, say, a medical education. “You went to the medbay, right?”

“Don’t worry. I was cleared by First Aid.” Skids folded his arms across his chest. “Usual assortment of after-combat dents and scorch marks, but the stab wound was surprisingly minor. Nothing worth shoving me ahead of the critical cases. I’m cleared to fly.”

“I meant the medbay on Luna 1, just now,” Ratchet clarified, “but on that note, you should still stop by the medbay here. Drift wants his assault rifle back.”

“Damn. I was hoping he’d forgotten about it.”

“Pharma’s medbay is why I went,” Rung finally spoke up. “I felt like I should be useful, since I’m not seeing patients until the dead Legislators are cleared out of my office. And since I actually know the difference between circuit flux and platinum wire…”

“You’ve probably made my job a dozen times easier,” Ratchet said gratefully. Then, wishing he didn’t feel so awkward, asked, “What did you do with the body?”

Rung and Fort Max exchanged a look. “We didn’t see a body,” Rung finally said for both of them. “We saw signs of the fight, and a lot of energon, but no body.”

“That’s…” Ratchet shook his head. “That’s impossible. He was… It couldn’t have moved on its own, and the Legislators are all frozen.” And Lockdown certainly wouldn’t have come back for him. Would he? Besides, Whirl had said he and his remaining thugs had turned tail after discovering just how ferocious he was; which, while an exaggeration on Whirl’s part, had been corroborated by Dai Atlas.

“Who were we supposed to find?” Rung asked gently.

“Pharma.” Ratchet looked down at his hands and the fresh patches over his neatly repaired wrists. “Drift shot him.”

Fort Max looked at the two of them, and not-so-subtly yanked Skids further down the corridor with a squawk, giving them at least the illusion of privacy. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Rung offered, stepping closer and putting a comforting hand on Ratchet’s arm. “He was your friend, at one point, right?”

“He was.” Ratchet hadn’t really talked about losing him before, other than on a perfunctory level with First Aid and Ambulon, and very minimally with Drift. He and Drift hadn’t been as close then, but Ratchet would have turned to him now, except… “I need to take care of the inventory,” he said, and, because he was looking for it, saw the slight frown as Rung thought he was brushing him off. “Do you have time afterward?”

The frown evaporated, replaced by a pleased, sympathetic smile. “Yes. We can go see if Swerve’s cleaned up the mess in his bar, or just find an empty observation deck… whichever you prefer.”

“Observation deck, probably.” The need for solitude and privacy, for once, trumped the desire for highgrade. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“My office  _ is  _ full of dead Legislators,” Rung reminded him, with a touch of humor. “Until that’s fixed, I have a pretty open schedule.”

Feeling an uncharacteristic lack of anything clever to say, Ratchet simply nodded. “Thank you.”

They waited in silence for the few remaining kliks it took for Red Alert to finish his sweep of the shuttle. Then Ratchet switched places with the head of security so the shuttle crew could undergo their nominal safety check while he got started sorting and logging the salvage. Mostly logging, since the majority of it was already sorted and, amazingly, accurately labelled. Thank you, Rung.

It looked like they’d brought back parts to repair the  _ Lost Light’s _ interstellar communications array, as well as the parts for medbay. Once everything was off the shuttle and marked for its final destination, Ratchet left Trailcutter in charge of transport and went back over to Rung. “I know of one that’s usually empty,” the smaller mech said, tilting his head in question. When Ratchet nodded that was fine, Rung led the way.

The place he led them to was a small observation deck with a view dominated by the  _ Lost Light’s _ rear engines, rather than the stars beyond. Unlike the main forward and side decks, this one was empty. There was, in fact, a faint sheen of dust on the viewing bench that told Ratchet it hadn’t been used in quite some time, perhaps even before launch. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it back without Rung’s guidance, either.

Rung sat on one end of the bench, looking at Ratchet instead of the less than stellar view, and offered a package of energon sticks from one of his innumerable secret compartments. “Want one?”

“Sure.” Ratchet took the snack and settled facing him. Sat. He didn’t feel settled at all. “How much do you know about what happened?”

“Pharma was down there,” Rung answered evenly, taking one of the sticks for himself. “He held you and Drift separate from the others. Drift shot him and you escaped.”

Ratchet laughed, a sort of hollow sound. “That’s all the basics, at least. But he wasn’t supposed to be there. He was supposed to have died, on Messatine. Seeing him again was…” He trailed off, trying to organize his conflicted thoughts enough to put them in words. “It was a shock. A relief. And completely terrifying.”

“I would call all three natural reactions,” Rung said. He leaned forward a bit, brushing Ratchet with a sense of  _ safety _ from his EM field.

“I suppose so.” Those weren’t the emotions that were giving him trouble though, and it was  _ regret  _ that flowed into his own field as Ratchet continued. “I wanted to talk to him. I don’t think I even realized—” let himself realize “—how much I wanted to talk to him after the way things went down at Delphi. But he was dead, so it was a moot point. Until it suddenly wasn’t, but there was still no chance to talk.”

“Because he wasn’t listening?” 

“Beyond not listening,” Ratchet admitted. “I’m not delusional. It’s not like I thought we were going to have a rational discussion while he had me strapped down to the slab and was waving saws in my face.” Much less while he was using those saws to actually cut pieces off of him.

“No. But that doesn’t change that you wanted that rational conversation.” Rung didn’t have a powerful engine, so his taking a deep breath of cooling air wasn’t as obvious as it was with someone with a vehicle alt. “What would you have said, if you could have?”

“I’d have asked him what happened. When what he was able to do started to matter so much more than how he applied his skills.” Ratchet sighed, realizing he’d been fidgeting with the energon stick rather than eating it. “What does it matter? I’ll never get an answer now.”

“If you were religious,” Rung said gently, “I’d say it’s because the dead can hear you, even if you can’t hear them, and it’d bring you both closure. Since you’re you, I’ll tell you it’s because it’ll make you feel better. It’s still closure, but closure with your own thoughts.”

“Yeah? And how long will that take? Because I’m not feeling a whole lot of closure right now.”

“Grief is a very individual thing. Your feelings are valid, even mixed as they are.”

“They probably wouldn’t be appreciated, though.” Ratchet bit off half the energon stick, using the pause to think. There was part of him that didn’t want to bring it up, but the biggest reason he’d agreed to talk to Rung in the first place was— “I can’t talk to Drift about what happened.”

“Which is why you’re here,” Rung pointed out, mirroring Ratchet’s thought almost exactly. “I’m a safe person to talk to about Pharma as a lost friend.”

“I thought we were friends. I don’t know when that changed for him, but we studied together, worked together, for such a long time. That’s the Pharma I remember, even after what happened on Delphi and Luna 1.” Somehow the crazed, “mad medic” Pharma didn’t seem fully real to Ratchet, or at least like he wasn’t the same mech, but, “On the other hand, the mech that threatened and tortured us is the only Pharma that Drift knows. He had every reason to kill him, but I still wish he hadn’t. I  _ know  _ better, but I still wish he hadn’t.”

“Which is fair.” Rung offered another energon stick from the box and Ratchet realized he’d finished the first at some point. “I don’t believe that Drift will not sympathize. He would even grieve with you because he cares for you. But he can’t empathize with losing Pharma as a friend and colleague.”

“I couldn’t ask him to. But sympathy… I don’t  _ want  _ sympathy right now.” 

“Then tell me about the Pharma you knew, and I will listen.”

So Ratchet did. It felt a bit strange at first, talking about fond memories and happier times in the aftermath of what had happened, but in an odd sort of way, it helped. Rung did listen, occasionally asking questions about Pharma and what he’d been like, and he kept offering candy whenever Ratchet finished the one in his hands. Mech seemed to have an endless supply of the things.

Cybertronians didn’t tear up like humans did, but Ratchet ended up sobbing a bit anyway. He didn’t know when, would probably never know when, but Ratchet had lost Pharma long before Drift had killed him. Pharma hadn’t always been the monster he’d become, and that monster had no longer been his friend. It hurt to acknowledge that loss, but it did help, and Rung didn’t judge.

“I miss him,” Ratchet finished when he ran out of things to say. “I’ll probably still have nightmares about him, but I’m going to miss him.”

“He deserves to be missed.” 

“I’m glad at least one other person thinks so.” Rung offered another energon stick, and Ratchet took it. “You really shouldn’t be enabling me with these,” he said, waving it at Rung disapprovingly before biting into it anyway.

“But that just means you’ll have to come back when you get a craving,” Rung teased. “It’s all part of my dastardly plan.”

“It’s a clever strategy, anyway.” He finished the candy, and this time refused the offer of another. “Thank you for listening.”

“Any time. If you want to hold a memorial for Pharma, I would certainly be willing to help you organize it.”

“Good to know.” Ratchet wasn’t sure he would want to do anything, but it was nice to have the support. Maybe if his body had been there… “There was really no sign of him at all?”

“We didn’t see anything, no.”

Ratchet sighed. “I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

“Maybe Lockdown circled back to pick him up for some reason?” Rung suggested, as little more than a guess.

“I can’t imagine why he would have.” Ratchet didn’t know Lockdown, but it had been clear there was no love lost between the two of them. And there really shouldn’t have been anything Lockdown could  _ do _ for Pharma, given how completely slagged his processors had been, with spark death following shortly after… “I probably wouldn’t feel so anxious about it except that the last time Pharma ‘died’ he somehow managed to come back.”

“Because Tyrest healed him,” Rung pointed out gently. “And we do have both Tyrest and Star Saber in the ship’s morgue at the moment.”

“That would make it rather difficult for either of them to steal Pharma’s body and miraculously resurrect him, wouldn’t it?” Which was more of a relief than it should have been, perhaps, but Ratchet figured he could give himself some leeway. 

He was just about to offer to take Rung to Swerve’s and see if it was cleaned up yet, but the rather garbled transmission of First Aid and Rodimus’ overlapping,  _ “Ratchet, get to the medbay now!—What the fuck did you do!” _ killed that idea. “Sorry,” he said, getting to his feet. “Something seems to have gone horribly wrong in the medbay.”

“Go.”

Ratchet barely heard him; he was already running for the observation deck’s door. Once out in the hallway, he took the chance to transform and  _ drive _ — lights and sirens and, oh hey, it turned out he remembered the route on his own after all — to the medbay.

It was pure chaos inside. The only upside was that the Whirl-bots weren’t buzzing around. Both Rodimus and Drift were gone from their berths, and medical alarms were screaming that the patients were missing. Finding them wasn’t hard though; they were both sprawled out over an unresisting Cyclonus, who was also being guarded by Skids (still with Drift’s assault rifle). Whirl was still too sedated to have joined the attack, not that he seemed inclined to, given how he was yelling groggily that Cyclonus was innocent. Ambulon was standing, barely, and shaking his head like he wasn’t sure what was going on.

First Aid stood in the metaphorical center of the chaos, checking over Tailgate.

“What happened?” Ratchet asked, starting by shutting off the alarms so he could hear himself think. The instant they stopped, everyone started talking at once.

“Cyclonus was over talking with Whirl, then all of a sudden—”

“—thought he was going back to Tailgate but then he pulled out his sword—”

“I  _ told  _ you I tol’ ‘im to do zzt…” 

“—and he just goes and  _ stabs  _ him with—”

“Shut up!” First Aid’s voice rang out over the confused babble. Instantly, everyone did just that. “Making sure Tailgate is alright comes first, explanations second.”

“Hard to know what to look for without at least some explanation,” Ratchet pointed out, coming up to the other side of Tailgate’s berth and absently pushing Cyclonus’ Great Sword out of the way with his foot, mindful of that long-ago instruction not to pick up Drift’s. What in the world—

“Cyclonus stabbed him through the chest with his Great Sword,” First Aid said tersely. “Now help me make sure it hasn’t killed him.”

Ratchet could see the stab wound, but it wasn’t acting like any wound he’d ever seen. No bleeding or sparking, just a big tear in the armor and internal workings, which were all somehow waiting politely for First Aid — and Ratchet, as he automatically picked up his tools and started working as well — to put them back together.

And Tailgate’s lifesign readings didn’t make sense either. Ratchet had gotten used to the slowly deteriorating readings. The erratic sparkbeat, the sluggish energon flow, the incremental shutdown all caused by the Cybercrosis. But Tailgate’s readings were… Odd. Not perfectly healthy, but no longer actively dying. His was a very damaged frame, but his  _ spark _ was strong and steady, and Ratchet actually lost track of the wires he was resoldering watching one instrument show how Tailgate’s innermost energon was  _ visibly uncurdling. _

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Ratchet said after a couple of kliks, “but it looks like he’s done the opposite of killing him.”

First Aid looked peeved, but didn’t argue it. “Could you go get everyone back in their berths? Skids needs to be able to guard Cyclonus without shooting our command staff.”

“And they have no business being out of their berths anyway,” Ratchet agreed, stepping back and leaving Tailgate in First Aid’s capable hands. “Congratulations on what I’m sure was a stupendous flying tackle,” he said to the injured officers draped haphazardly across Cyclonus’ frame. Rodimus was somewhat on top, so Ratchet lifted him first. “Didn’t even stop to think, did you?”

“Should I have?” the captain managed to snark, while Cyclonus gave them all a very put-upon sigh. Drift’s frame shook in a silent laugh. He managed to push himself off of Cyclonus, once Rodimus wasn’t on top of  _ him, _ but it was obvious he wouldn’t be going far on his own.

“Under the circumstances? I suppose I can’t fault your courage and initiative, though you might have considered how outmatched you’d have been in your current condition if he’d fought back.”

“Why?”

“Because not doing that is a good way to get yourself killed,” Ratchet said, arranging him back on his berth so he could reattach the monitors. “And we kind of need you around.”

“Pfft. I’m  _ totally fine. _ Fine enough that I can probably go rest up in my quarters—”

“You know, I’m pretty sure I would have remembered saying something like that if that was my opinion.” Ratchet held up the berth’s restraints. “Do I need to use these?”

“No.” Rodimus pouted. “Can I at least have my stylus?”

“So you can draw all over the berth?” Ratchet was tempted to say no, but perhaps it would be worth it to have him stay put. “Fine.”

Rodimus brightened immediately and made a grabbing gesture towards the drawer of tools, presumably where First Aid had stashed it. Sure enough, it was laying right on top when Ratchet went to retrieve it, and he returned it to Rodimus before going back over to Drift. “I’d accuse the captain of being a bad influence on you,” he said as he picked him up, “but since it’s obvious that you leapt  _ first,  _ perhaps you’re the one who’s a bad influence.”

“There’s a pretty long line of mechs who’d agree with you,” Drift drawled back, wrapping his arms comfortably around Ratchet’s neck for balance, “but Roddy was like this when I met him. Besides, he was further away,” he tacked on unrepentantly.

“Hey!”

“Well you were.”

“Don’t worry, I get it — you’re both equally reckless.”

Rodimus protested again while Drift laughed. 

Ambulon still hadn’t moved much by the time both speedsters were back in their medberths (Rodimus was already doodling on his). “Let’s get you horizontal again,” Ratchet suggested, offering him a shoulder to lean on.

“Yeah,” Ambulon answered with an astounding amount of self awareness (for this ship!). “I don’t think I’m much help.”

“Not until you’ve rested a bit more, no. Although keeping Whirl in his berth definitely counts as helping,” Ratchet said, assisting Ambulon back up to lay beside the weakly flailing rotary. “Stop trying to escape, you.”

Whirl glared balefully as Ambulon pulled his gangly frame against his chest with surprising strength. It probably would have been scarier if he didn’t keep switching his glare from one side of Ratchet’s head to the other, like he wasn’t sure where the medic actually was. With Whirl, that could be either the sedation or a momentary affectation because it amused him. “Zzn’t hz faalt,” he slurred.

“Your testimony has been noted,” Ratchet assured him. Alright; everyone was back in bed. “I think it’s time you gave a statement, Cyclonus.”

The purple mech had propped himself up under Skid’s watchful gaze, but otherwise hadn’t moved. “Tailgate’s spark was failing and I, apparently, have—  _ had _ an overabundance of spark energy.”

“Okay. And how does that translate to thinking that stabbing him with a sword was a good idea?”

“Great Swords are spark energy channels,” Drift said, disregarding the instruments telling him to stop pushing himself to a sitting position, though he didn’t try and stand again. “Does that mean Tailgate’s okay?”

“Aside from the stab wound, which I’ve mostly repaired, and the residual damage from the Cybercrosis that his self repair is just beginning to reverse… yes,” First Aid confirmed. “The road to full recovery will take awhile, but it looks like he’s going to make it.”

A ragged cheer went up around the medbay and Cyclonus sagged against the wall with a sigh, optics shutting off momentarily.

“You didn’t know if it would work,” Ratchet guessed.

“I did not. There was no way to test, no way to confirm that the transfer would work as intended, or that I had enough…”

“You had faith,” Drift said quietly. “That’s what your Sword needed. If you had tested it, it wouldn’t have worked.” Cyclonus’ optics met Drift’s gaze and Ratchet saw the speedster quirk a smile. “Which means it will probably never be possible again,” he finished up. 

“You talk like it’s some sort of miracle,” Cyclonus snapped harshly.

“Miracles are things you work for, too,” Drift said gently. “Primus doesn’t give us things we don’t work for.”

Cyclonus nodded as though that made sense, which it certainly didn’t to Ratchet. “Primus and magic swords,” he muttered, disbelieving. “And this was  _ Whirl’s  _ idea?”

“He told me the members of the Circle had noticed how much energy I was able to channel through the sword,” Cyclonus said. “They attributed it to a great devotion to Primus, but Whirl and I agreed it was more likely due to the way Primus cleansed me of the Dead Universe’s influence when Cybertron regenerated.”

That Cyclonus’ spark was — had been? Ratchet needed to scan him again — unnaturally powerful given his age was a documented fact, however it had occurred. Ratchet didn’t believe Primus was in any way involved, but the Dead Universe and all things related to it did equal the kind of science Rodimus called “magic”. Ratchet had given up trying to understand it himself, but the idea of transferring spark energy was theoretically sound; First Aid’s sparkjump procedure even proved it could work on a limited scale, though it couldn’t have managed anything like this. The most his clamps could do was transfer a small jolt, enough to bolster a spark capable of recovering on its own, not enough to  _ regenerate a dying spark. _ . “What you’re saying then,” he said slowly, “is that you used your sword as a conduit to transfer the excess energy from your spark to Tailgate’s?” 

Ratchet was calm. Really.

“Great Swords are spark energy conduits,” Drift repeated, scooting into a slightly more upright position and patting the empty space beside him. “Come here, Ratchet. Sit down before you fall down. He doesn’t have the answers you’re looking for.”

Cyclonus huffed, but didn’t disagree. “I thought there was a chance, and the consequences of not acting were not ones I could live with.”

“Faith.” Drift nodded.

Desperation, more like. Blind hope and panic. But Tailgate absolutely would have died without something on the level of divine intervention, and Ratchet couldn’t argue with the results. “I should check that you haven’t damaged your spark.”

Cyclonus looked a bit put upon.

“He didn’t,” Drift said confidently. “You can check, but his spark’s fine.”

Ratchet did check, because untested medical procedures that involved stabbing people and transferring spark energy could have unexpected side effects, damn it! He was both relieved and annoyed to discover that Cyclonus really was perfectly fine. If anything, his readings were more normal than they’d ever been. The scans supported the theory that he had rejuvenated, not just jump-started, Tailgate’s spark, equalizing the energy between them. A jump-start would have not had this big an impact on Cyclonus’ spark.

“It worked. What you did was completely insane, but it worked.” 

“Going to come sit down now?” Drift asked in amusement.

Ratchet couldn’t think of a reason not to. “I’m glad it worked,” he said to Cyclonus, then went over to sit heavily beside Drift. “I wasn’t going to fall down.”

“You looked a little unsteady,” Drift chided, scooching up next to him.

“Doesn’t mean I was going to fall down.”

“Of course not.”

They sat there quietly leaning on each other, watching while First Aid finished patching Tailgate up and Rodimus officially “pardoned” Cyclonus for stab-healing him, which let Skids off the hook for guarding him. He came over to deliver Drift’s assault rifle, a broad smile on his face. “Is it okay if I spread the good news?”

As if they’d be able to keep a lid on it, with the medbay so full at the moment. “We should wait for Tailgate to wake up,” First Aid said cautiously. “Go ahead and set any rumors straight, but Tailgate — Tailgate and Cyclonus — should be the ones to give out any details.”

“I can do that,” Skids agreed easily. “Thanks for letting me borrow the gun. If you ever don’t want it anymore…” 

“It’ll be dust and rust from age,” Drift finished, subspacing it to clean later. “Go find your own.”

Skids just laughed. “Can’t blame you for that. See you later!”

Ratchet shook his head. “That nice a gun, is it?”

“One of the most powerful for its size on the market. But even if it wasn’t, I don’t give away weapons.”

“Not when you might need them to save our lives, hmm?”

“And buying guns isn’t exactly what I want to be doing,” Drift admitted. “Having them is necessary, but the gun-measuring contest that happens whenever I need to replace one isn’t fun anymore. Besides, I never was particularly generous with things like that.”

“There are better things to be generous with than weapons anyway.” Ratchet took Drift’s hand. “Things like time and kindness.”

“I cannot believe I actually heard those words come out of  _ your  _ mouth with my own audios,” Rodimus said, rolling his optics at them both. “You two are  _ hopeless.” _

“And you’re a giant boopy-head,” Drift called back, completely serious and utterly immature.

Ratchet sighed. “Which two of us are hopeless again?”

“Not us.” 

“I don’t know.”

Drift leaned against Ratchet and stroked one hand down his spinal struts. “How are you feeling? Better?”

“Better,” Ratchet agreed. Maybe this was just one of those mysteries he should write off and leave up to Perceptor to try to solve. He’d even enjoy banging his head against it until he cracked it (the problem or his head, one or the other). “As long as you don’t decide to try healing anyone via stabbing.”

“I can’t promise that. If it were you, or Rodimus, in the heat of battle…” Drift sighed. “It won’t work for me, not if I have time to think, but for the two of you I wouldn’t hesitate to trade my life for yours.”

An awful thought occurred to Ratchet. “Please tell me that’s not what you were trying to do on Luna 1.”

“Well, I didn’t think I was going to  _ heal _ you down there,” Drift drawled, snuggling against Ratchet and unbothered by what he was saying. “And I didn’t think I was going to die, precisely, but when I saw that Lockdown had you, and that we were surrounded… Yeah. I was willing. I had to be.”

Ratchet understood the need for that mindset in battle, but he still hated it. “I’d never seen you draw your Great Sword before.”

“It’s not something done lightly. Great Swords… aren’t like other weapons. They’re ‘magic’,” Drift said the word with an inflection that told Ratchet he was aware of just how well that word would be received, “swords. It’s… it’s hard to describe, but…” He sighed. “You’re super-charged. It’s like being high, except you really can do all those things you think you can. Cut through reinforced spacecraft armor like it was a thin polymer sheet, take hits that’d make a titan stumble, move faster than a bullet. Nigh invincible. Lockdown was smart not to let me get it in my hand, but then he’s seen it before. But there’s a price.”

Given what Cyclonus had apparently just done through the use of his Great Sword, Ratchet could guess what it was. The power output required to give a regular mech some of the abilities of a point-one percenter with a spark energy conduit… “I don’t want you to pay that price.”

Drift shrugged, and continued stroking Ratchet’s back comfortingly. “Never lightly, and it’s not certain death. But it’s my life to give, if it happens.”

“I…”  _ I don’t want that.  _ “I can respect that.”

“I’m not going anywhere right now,” Drift assured. “Right now, I am perfectly safe and doing nothing but recovering.”

“You’re not lying down,” Rodimus grumbled from where he was lying on his own berth.

Ratchet chuckled. “Just this once, I’m going to tell you to follow his example.” Preferably without doodling on the berth, though.

“Want to try and do what Whirl and Ambulon are doing and lay down with me?”

“I want to.” Ratchet really, really wanted to. “But there’s still work to be done before I can join you.”

“No rest for the wicked?” Drift bunted their helm kibble together. “Don’t work too hard then.”

“I’ll try not to.” Ratchet made sure Drift did, in fact, lay down, then got up and consulted the checklist again. The sooner he got started, the sooner he could be done.

.

.

.

Blueray, Silverstorm and the other cooperative Decepticon prisoners were pretty collectively fascinated with their new tracking modules. They had been made as tamper-proof as Red Alert could make them in between fixing everything else that had gotten broken in the attack, so Ratchet was reasonably certain they couldn’t be circumvented. Certainly not on the first try, and he’d explained to them that if Red Alert detected any tampering on any of them, it would result in the loss of this particular privilege for all of them.

What privilege? As a reward for defending the ship and not taking the chance to escape or harm the crew, they were now allowed to freely leave their room cells during Red Alert’s on-shift joors (so he could monitor their movements). They weren’t being given free range of the entire ship; they were only allowed to go to the first junction past their rooms going one way, and to a small observation deck that lay at the end of the corridor going the other, but it was a big step up from being confined to quarters except for work shifts. Plus, one of the rooms across from them was being opened for them to use as another social area. 

“Alright. You’re all set,” Ratchet announced once the last tracker was in place. “Red Alert’s on shift now, so I’m going to go and let you wander.”

They looked at each other and at the — to them, probably suddenly huge — corridor. Ratchet was not at all surprised to see Ragefire and two others head directly to the junction that was the boundary of their new “cage”. Blueray went to the observation deck, while the rest wandered off in different directions, exploring, though objectively there wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen while being taken back and forth from work shifts.

Since they were open corridors, it would be possible for them to encounter and interact with members of the crew who happened to come through. Ratchet didn’t expect there to be much traffic, but it felt like a positive step nonetheless. This cycle, however, the space was all theirs. There was no way anyone was going to wander all the way to this end of the ship with Swerve’s hosting its grand re-opening.

Which was exactly where Ratchet was headed next himself.  _ “Are all the signals coming through?”  _ he checked with Red Alert before leaving.

_ “Tracking them all now. I  _ **_still_ ** _ think this isn’t a risk we should be taking, especially given how we’re still in hostile territory, and—” _

_ “We get it, Red,” _ Fortress Maximus broke into the impending rant.  _ “But we all also agree they’re due something for their cooperation and this is a good compromise. I’m monitoring them too, and so far everything’s good.” _

_ “Why couldn’t we just give them all game consoles or some other inane entertainment item that they could use  _ **_in their cells?”_ **

_ “Because Ultra Magnus and the captain said so,” _ the warden said with finality.

_ “But—!” _

_ “Thank you for all your hard work, Red Alert,”  _ Ratchet said, then dropped out of the call. They could continue to argue as long as Red wanted and Fort Max would tolerate, and they didn’t need him for it. He had a party to get to!

Ratchet started to hear the music before he’d even reached the door, and when he arrived he wasn’t at all surprised to see that most of the tables had been pushed to the side so people would have room to dance. Above the bar, some enterprising someones had put up “Grand Re-Opening”, “Happy Retirement”, and “We’re Not All Dead!” banners, slightly overlapping like they couldn’t decide which sign to actually go with.

His presence was noticed almost immediately. “Here’s the mech of honor himself!” Lancet called, and a cheer went through the room while a crowd gathered around, impeding his path to the booze.

“Really?” He laughed, surprised enough that several mechs called out, “We got him!” Ratchet didn’t bother to correct them, since while he’d known Rodimus wouldn’t threaten a retirement party and not follow through, he hadn’t been aware he’d combined it with the re-opening party. “You’re all that happy to see me go, are you?”

“Especially since you’re not actually  _ going _ anywhere,” Hound said, draped in the damned folded foil ornaments, which Ratchet saw were making the rounds through the crowd again. “So it’s the best of both worlds.”

“True enough,” Ratchet said, unable to deny he’d been thinking about it the same way. He grinned when he saw Smokescreen at the edge of the crowd. “So who won the pool?”

“Perceptor,” Smokescreen called back with a laugh. Because of course he had.

“Do I even want to know how many of you bet on me never retiring?” Ratchet asked everyone else.

Several mechs averted their optics, adopting shifty expressions. “Oh hey! Drinks!” They scattered, thinning the crowd enough that Ratchet could start moving toward his own drink.

“I can show you the books later, if you want,” Smokescreen offered. “Then you can see exactly how many people you bankrupted with this decision.”

“If anyone put enough money on me never retiring to bankrupt themselves, then that’s on them, not me.” Ratchet doubted anyone really had, though. “And it’s not like I can blame anyone for thinking it. There was a long period of time where  _ I  _ thought I was never going to be able to retire.”

“Well, it’s a big step,” Smokescreen said, “and work can be hard to give up.”

“I’ve been warned to expect a bit of a mental transitioning period.” The only unexpected thing about that lecture was that he hadn’t only gotten it from Rung. Even before the psychiatrist had gotten to him, First Aid had opened up and been very candid about the difficulties he’d had with his demotion at Delphi — though of course in his case the reduction in responsibilities and authority hadn’t been voluntary, which made a difference. “But it’s a transition I want to make. It’s finally the right time.”

Smokescreen grinned. “That’s why we’re having a party, yeah?”

Skids came over immediately, clapping and encouraging others nearby to clap, when Ratchet got to the bar. He wasn’t even surprised to see that Ratchet’s Rusty Wrenches and Cosmic Stardusts were half off, and as a result, most mechs nearby were drinking them. “Hey there! One of your usuals, or are you in the mood for something different?”

“You mean retiring isn’t different enough?” Ratchet laughed again. “The usual sounds good to me.”

“Coming up.” Skids reached for the first ingredient.

“I still don’t get why you’re stepping down.” The newcomer, Getaway, poked curiously at his Cosmic Stardust with a straw, which he obviously hadn’t started drinking yet (the gold flashes got more gaudy somehow when the ratio of ingredients changed while drinking). “I mean… you’re kind of legendary.”

“I’m also old, and I’ve been doing this job for so long it literally defines me to practically everyone.”

“So? Doesn’t sound like a reason to give it all up.” Getaway finally took a sip of his drink; Ratchet didn’t see much of a change of expression, given his faceplate. Though First Aid had even fewer facial features and managed to be super expressive with them anyway. Maybe it was because Getaway was in Ops.

“It’s not, precisely,” Ratchet shrugged, accepting his glass from Skids. “But the work has always meant more to me than the job, even if I pursued the job so I could continue to work. I made a reputation along the way, but it was a byproduct rather than a goal.” Unlike Pharma’s approach, which Ratchet couldn’t imagine bringing him much happiness. It certainly hadn’t done anything to make Pharma happy. “Stepping down puts me in a better position to pursue the things that are also important to me.”

Getaway shrugged. “I guess that’s cool,” he said, though Ratchet could tell he didn’t agree. Not that it mattered if he did or not; he wasn’t the one retiring.

“So is there going to be an official ceremony or anything?” Ratchet turned and saw Rewind perched on Chromedome’s shoulders, leaning forward on his helm eagerly. “Can I document it?”

“You’d have to ask First Aid and Rodimus about that,” Ratchet said. “They might want to make something of it, but it’s not required. I was promoted to Chief Medical Officer in the middle of a shift with no fanfare whatsoever.” 

“You mean you weren’t forged already CMO?” Smokescreen heckled from somewhere nearby. “Damn.”

“Of course I wasn’t, as you know perfectly well.” Ratchet raised his glass. “Now let’s get on with the party!”

Cheers went up around the bar. As the star guest, Ratchet found himself circulating and mingling rather than settling down at a table. Everyone wanted to talk, congratulate him. It was nice, even if he did end up wearing one of the dumb foil ornaments.

“Ratchet!” The medic looked over from his conversation with Hound and Pipes to see Tailgate, currently being ferried by Cyclonus, waving at him.

“Hello!” It was good to see him out and about, in a manner of speaking. His recovery had progressed enough that he was back in his shared habsuite with Cyclonus rather than in the medbay, and Ratchet hadn’t seen him since he’d been discharged due to his lingering mobility issues. “How are you feeling?”

“Fantastic. Life is great.” Tailgate giggled at his own “joke”. “But I wanted to show you something. Come on, Cyclonus. Show them.”

Cyclonus just made a put-upon sigh.

“Show us what?” Ratchet encouraged, grinning at the put-upon scowl on the mech’s no-longer-scarred face. 

Tailgate giggled while Cyclonus just glowered silently until he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “His horn!” the little mech burst out. “Look at them! Aren’t they great?”

“His— oh!” Ratchet blinked, wondering how he could have missed it. Two identical horns rose from Cyclonus’ helmet, so seamlessly integrated that if he hadn’t seen him before, he wouldn’t have known which one had been broken. “I, ah, thought you weren’t replacing it for religious reasons?” Come to think of it, repairing the scars on his face would have run counter to his beliefs too, if Ratchet understood them correctly…

“I made it for him,” Tailgate chirped, “and I made him promise to wear it.”

“External scars are never to be hidden,” Cyclonus said quietly. “They are a testament to what we have survived, but sometimes, not often, but sometimes, scars heal.”

What a beautiful thought. Ratchet smiled. “It looks good on you.”

Cyclonus nodded. Tailgate pulled on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go find Nutjob and show him too!” 

Another sigh. Ratchet suspected Cyclonus had foreseen the same thing he had — that Whirl would decide the new horn was the perfect place to hang foil ornaments.

“Have fun,” Ratchet said, trying not to laugh. If he had to wear the dumb things, then so should everyone else.

He had just enough time to finish his drink, and accept a Rusty Wrench from someone else, before being pulled into another group and another round of congratulations. He wasn’t quite sure when Drift joined him, sliding in next to him and wrapping an arm around his waist, but he was glad the speedster was there.

He flagged Swerve down for another drink, and this time actually laughed at the minibot’s joke. Then he found himself being waved down by First Aid, who was talking with the two nurses from the Circle.

“Hey!” First Aid called happily. “You met Dactyl and Ferritin, right? Sometime in the last couple of cycles?”

“While we were all too busy working to really get to know each other, yes.” Ratchet migrated over to them, towing Drift along in his wake. “You two have been amazing help.”

“We’re glad you were there,” Dactyl said with a bow, allowing Ratchet to see the Great Sword clamped to his back. “We would have lost many more if you had not been.”

“We look forward to working with you some more,” Ferritin added. “First Aid has been telling us about the more… unusual aspects of working in this ship’s medbay.”

“Like the Whirl-bots, the lob ball injuries, and the hallway drag race crash victims?”

“Precisely,” Dactyl agreed with a laugh. “It sounds interesting.”

“It certainly can be, though we’ve had a refreshing increase in down time as well.” Ratchet looked between them both. “Does this mean you’re going to be staying?”

They both looked to Drift, standing next to Ratchet, who practically vibrated excitedly. “We are,” Ferritin agreed. “Your captain’s agreed to take us on. I understand this’ll mean the ship will be more crowded, with many more civilians than you’re used to dealing with, but we can work.”

“You don’t have to justify the space — or the fuel — to us,” Drift assured before Ratchet could respond.  _ All _ of the Circle mechs were staying? “We’re glad to have you.”

“What he said,” Ratchet seconded, too busy trying to absorb the idea of having nearly as many civilians as soldiers on board to be more eloquent than that. That kind of ratio was so far outside what he’d come to consider normal anymore, and the idea of being a  _ civilian  _ doctor again… His processor was spinning, and it wasn’t just from the engex.

Drift’s arm around Ratchet’s waist tightened comfortingly. “Besides,” he continued, “your scholars are going to help us find the Knights of Cybertron. That’s not an inconsiderable contribution.”

“I can’t  _ wait _ to officially introduce you two to the Whirl-bots,” First Aid practically squealed. “Hopefully they’ll listen to you, or else we’re going to have to have Brainstorm reprogram their recognition software.”

“I still don’t understand why they’re allowed to fly freely,” Ferritin remarked. “I can see the use as therapy creatures, but they should be kept contained for that. As it is, it seems like they would be in the way a lot.”

“They are, and yet, surprisingly, they aren’t. It’s… hard to describe,” Ratchet said with a shrug. “They’ve got a hive mind and a learning AI that lets them become more useful over time, and if you really are bothered by having someone hovering over your shoulder — literally — watching you, they will go back to their charging station if you tell them to.”

“Why do you even have them?” Dactyl asked.

“You try saying no to Brainstorm,” Ratchet said, and Drift laughed. “Actually it’s because we had a problem with nanocons a while back, and the Whirl-bots were designed to deal with any future infestations.”

“Nanocons?”

Ratchet and First Aid took turns telling the tale, both delighting in the expressions shock and amazement on the two nurses’ faces. They continued on to other memorable moments when they finished with that story, eventually losing Drift when Dai Atlas made an appearance in the bar. Ratchet kept an optic on him where he lingered by the door, greeting other members of the Circle with kind words, basic explanations of what was going on, and foil ornaments.

Ferritin was halfway through an amusing anecdote of his own when Ratchet got a call from Blaster.  _ “What is it?”  _

_ “You’re wanted on the bridge,” _ the comms specialist said.

First Aid was already making his excuses to the small crowd that had gathered to listen to the stories of medical silliness; apparently he’d been summoned too. Together they made their way to the door. 

Drift and Dai Atlas were already in the hall. Drift looked back at them when they caught up. “Bridge?”

“Bridge,” Ratchet confirmed. “We must have been trying to relax and have a good time.”

“Must have.”

“As I understand it, if there were an urgent problem an alarm would have gone off?” Dai Atlas asked. “I’m still getting caught up on how this all works.”

“Oh goody. That means drills, doesn’t it,” First Aid said happily. “And not just for you. Everyone has to know where the safe areas are.”

“‘Goody’ isn’t the word I would use,” Drift responded, stretching, then bumped his shoulder against Ratchet affectionately. “But it is the ‘proper procedure’ for breaking in new crew and officers. And new Chief Medical Officers.”

First Aid giggled.

“Not very smart to schedule drills while half of us are drunk,” Ratchet said, though he hadn’t had enough yet to be truly impaired. Operating in his current state wouldn’t be a good idea, but he could still walk. “Though Ultra Magnus knows that, so it’s probably something else.”

“Rodimus wanted to try and use the equipment on Luna 1 to contact Cybertron before we moved on,” Drift said thoughtfully.

“Ah.” That could be a reason to call them away from the party, given the difficulties with long-range communication. “Let’s not keep them waiting then.”

The lack of panic on the bridge when they arrived was promising. Ratchet hung back, letting higher-ranking and more sober mechs take the lead. Drift squeezed his hand as he stepped forward. 

“Hey!” Rodimus waved before Dai Atlas could snap to attention or whatever else Ultra Magnus had been telling him was the appropriate way to greet the captain when stepping onto the bridge. “We’ve almost got it, right Blaster?”

“Connecting to Cybertron now,” Blaster confirmed.

“Bee is going to be so jealous of all the fun stuff we’ve been doing while he runs in circles on Cybertron.” Rodimus bounced over to them. “I can’t wait to tell him!”

“All of it?” Drift smiled indulgently.

“Ew, no. Just the cool parts.”

“Is that why we’re here?” First Aid asked, voicing Ratchet’s guess before he could. 

“Well, now that it’s official, I thought you’d want to make sure the records and scrap are updated back on Cybertron.” Not that there were many, but getting all the information on survivors collected in one place had been one of Bumblebee’s — and Prowl’s — stated goals before they left. “If you don’t, you can leave.” He waved his hand rather imperiously. 

“Nope! I’m staying,” First Aid said cheerfully.

Ratchet just shook his head. “We’re already here. No point in leaving now.” Besides, he was curious how things were going back on Cybertron.

Rodimus paced excitedly, while Dai Atlas drifted over to stand by Ultra Magnus, now fully encased in his armor again. Slightly amused, Ratchet wondered how well he was adapting. If the Crystal City survivors were all staying, that meant their leaders were going to be integrated into the  _ Lost Light’s _ command structure. Probably why he was here for this call, besides letting Cybertron know he wasn’t dead…

Slowly an image formed in the static on the main monitor; some kind of emblem. It wasn’t an Autobot symbol, and as the picture cleared, Ratchet could make out the words “Welcome to the Republic of Cybertron” underneath.

“Well that’s new,” he muttered, ignoring Rodimus’ continued chatter about “good ol’ Bumblebee”. 

The face that finally answered the call definitely wasn’t Bumblebee’s, though.

“We~ll, isn’t this a lovely surprise?” Starscream drawled imperiously. 

“Starscream!?!” Rodimus started to charge the screen, but Drift caught and held him fast. “What’s going on? Where’s Bumblebee?”

“Dead mechs don’t make demands,” the Decepticon hissed. “Now,” his mood shifted again and he he gave them all a smug, self-satisfied smile, “I suggest we sort this out like civilized mechs, because the fact is, I am the ruler of Cybertron and you… you’re ghosts. So let’s be rational about this.”

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	28. Chapter 28

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Being rational, as it turned out, wasn’t exactly easy, which surprised exactly no one. There were several points during the call where Drift and Ultra Magnus had to intervene when Rodimus flew off the handle, and Starscream’s composure cracked a few times as well. Ratchet, not trusting himself not to escalate things even further, stayed out of the whole mess as much as possible. He and First Aid wound up doing a sort of impromptu commentary on the sidelines to give Dai Atlas some of the history and context he was missing, which proved a useful distraction.

Drift might not have had any fondness for Starscream, but it was clear he at least had some practice staying calm around him. Starscream, on the other hand, seemed unnerved by Drift and had, several times, trailed off mid-rant when he looked at the white speedster. Which, of course, Rodimus noticed, and being called out on stumbling over his words didn’t improve Starscream’s mood.

Ratchet hadn’t been able to figure out what was throwing Starscream about Drift, until Dai Atlas suggested it was his optics —  _ Deadlock’s  _ optics, as far as Starscream would have been concerned. At least the seeker did one better than Lockdown and didn’t mistake which name he was using, either deliberately or by accident.

“Uh,” Starscream recovered from his latest slip-up while Rodimus called out  _ cybercat got your tongue? _ “…Article 473 of the new Cybertronian Republic constitution stipulates that all prisoners of war have to be released. So if you’re  _ harboring _ any, you need to let them go!”

“When was that article ratified?” Ultra Magnus broke in before anyone could start screeching again.

Starscream rattled off the date. It didn’t mean anything to Ratchet right away, but the three officers looked at each other.

“After Temptoria,” Drift sighed. 

“That means you  _ do _ have some!” Starscream crowed. “Might I remind you that failure to comply with Cybertronian Republic law will result in a  _ permanent ban _ from all Republic held territories?”

“You really don’t have to remind us again, no,” Ultra Magnus said stiffly.

Rodimus shook off Ultra Magnus’s hold for the third time in the last two breems. “Yeah. You’ve only said it like ten times already.”

“Well,” Starscream huffed, ruffling his armor indignantly. “It bears repeating. We’ve already expelled several Autobots from Republic territory for failure to comply, so I thought I’d work  _ extra hard _ to hammer it into your thick cranial plating!  _ All _ prisoners captured before that date need to be released. _ All _ of them.”

All of them. Drift and Rodimus shared another look, and Ratchet knew right away what, or rather, who, they’d just remembered.  _ Frag.  _

“We will need a complete copy of the new constitution in order to be able to comply with it fully,” Ultra Magnus said, leaving aside the difficulties releasing their prisoners would entail. “I trust Cybertron’s new ruler,” he ground out the words through such tightly clenched teeth that Ratchet was surprised his jaw didn’t seize up, “will have no trouble sending the relevant files?”

“Of course not,” Starscream cooed. “I’ll send it immediately.” He reached for something offscreen. “Have I mentioned how much I always liked dealing with you, Ultra Magnus? Such a force of order in a chaotic galaxy…” Which made Ratchet feel slimy, even though he wasn’t the one being targeted by the flattery. He couldn’t tell if Magnus was controlling his expression extremely well, or if he’d just locked the armor’s facial actuators into that impassive frown.

“Hey! No poaching!”

“But  _ Prime… _ You wouldn’t want to keep Ultra Magnus from—”

“We’ve got the document,” Blaster, thankfully, interrupted.

Rodimus opened his mouth to say something else, but — “Ow!” — glared at Drift instead, rubbing at his hand. 

“Thank you, Commander,” Drift said smoothly, which made Starscream hiss, narrowing his optics to glare with — what Ratchet could see now that he was looking for it — a slight hint of fear at the  _ Lost Light’s _ third in command. “We’ll review these and get back to you.”

“I’m recording your receipt of the transmission,” Starscream huffed. “Failure to comply with—”

“—Cybertronian Republic law will result in a permanent ban from all Republic held territories, blah, blah, blah, we  _ get it!”  _ Rodimus’ talking hand gesture was almost as patronizing as his tone of voice. “We can’t claim ignorance of the law now that we have it.”

Starscream opened his mouth to say something snide, but Drift interrupted. “Goodbye, Starscream.”

Taking his cue, Blaster ended the call. Everyone on the bridge seemed to sigh in relief.

“Show of hands, who thinks he’s straight up lying about being in charge and no one on Cybertron even knows about the conversation we just had?” Rodimus asked immediately.

Ratchet snorted. “I wish, but it’s not like that was a private call.”

“I verified the transmission went to the central communications hub in Iacon,” Blaster confirmed. “And the metadata on the file he sent us has all the markings of an official document.”

“Unfortunately, Starscream really is a rather bad liar,” Drift said with an exasperated huff, making Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, and Blaster all look at him in disbelief. If there was one thing Starscream was _ good _ at it was lying! “He exaggerates to the point of  _ delusion,” _ Drift explained, scoffing, “but he doesn’t make things up wholesale. If this were a deliberate deception, I’d expect him to claim he’d rallied the Decepticons, conquered Cybertron, and taken over all former Decepticon territory or something, not that he was the elected leader of a Cybertronian Republic.”

“Too small scale for him, huh?” Rodimus said.

“Frankly, yes,” Drift said with a wry smile.

“You know,” Ratchet said, resisting the urge to facepalm, “I had wanted to bring up the subject of what set of rules the  _ Lost Light  _ should be operating under in light of recent developments on Luna 1,” and as a chance to bring up some of his ideas regarding war-versus-peacetime law enforcement, “but this isn’t what I had in mind.”

“Yes, of course,” Ultra Magnus visibly unlocked his frame. “We should do that. Immediately.”

“That means meetings, doesn’t it?” Rodimus whined. “I wanted to go to the party.”

“Captain’s burden,” Drift reminded his friend, then grinned so innocently there was no way what he was thinking was anything but trouble. “And hey, there’s a bright side,” he chirped.

“Yeah?”

“First Aid and I are going to be suffering right alongside you.”

“It won’t really be that bad,” First Aid said, an edge of uncertainty on the hope in his voice, “will it?”

Ratchet laughed. “Ohhh, you have no idea,” he said, patting his replacement on the shoulder. “If everyone’s willing to allow it, though, I wouldn’t mind sitting in one last time in a mentoring capacity while you get used to it.”

Rodimus bit back an automatic agreement and shrugged. “Up to First Aid.”

The newly appointed CMO thought for a moment. “Maybe it would be a good idea, just for the first meeting,” he said. “Thank you, Ratchet.”

“You’re welcome.” He would have volunteered to help even if he  _ hadn’t  _ had an agenda he wanted to push, but since he  _ did  _ want to make sure that the rules concerning propaganda and sedition came under review, he wasn’t dreading actually doing it.

“Come on Roddy, let’s go kick any party spillover out of the conference room,” Drift snatched the captain’s wrist and dragged him out amidst a hail of protests and swearwords Ratchet could tell he didn’t really mean, simply because Rodimus didn’t throw a punch to go along with them. First Aid followed, complimenting Rodimus on some of his more creative curses.

“Is it always like this?” Dai Atlas asked Ratchet and Ultra Magnus once the other three were out the door.

“Usually they’re worse,” Blaster spoke up, studiously concentrating on monitoring the comm channels.

“They need adult supervision,” Ultra Magnus said dourly, following them.

“Ah, I think I’m missing something: what’s an adult? Is that a rank I’m not familiar with?”

“It’s an alien rank — it denotes age or maturity for humans. Several of us spent enough time there that the phrase stuck,” Ratchet explained. “Shall we go help with the supervising?”

“I’m older than you,” Drift called back from the hall.

“You should try acting like it sometime then!”

“I suppose we should,” Dai Atlas answered Ratchet, ignoring Drift. “It’s what a responsible… fourth? in command should do.”

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Thilia X56S was… well, it had a spaceport hub that allowed Cybertronians to land and book passage. If Ratchet hadn’t known better, he would have suspected Rodimus of choosing the most arid, dusty expanse of horizon to horizon rust sand to drop their prisoners off at out of spite. They shuttle wasn’t going to be here very long, after all; all they needed to do was land, kick the Decepticons from Temptoria off the shuttle, then take off again. 

Good riddance, Ratchet thought, as far as Blip and the other troublemakers were concerned, but he’d be sorry to see Blueray, Silverstorm, Ragefire and the others in that group go. They huddled together in the shuttle, keeping as far from the more obnoxious prisoners as they could. Blip wasn’t being verbally abusive at the moment, but that was probably because when he’d started, Skids had cheerfully threatened to rewire his waste disposal systems to his transformation sequence, then proceeded to tell him in  _ medically accurate _ terms exactly how he’d go about doing that in a way that very carefully did not violate any abuse of prisoner laws… Blip had shut up after that, even though Ratchet knew the only part of Skids’ threat that wasn’t illegal was  _ making the threat. _

“We’re about to enter the planet’s atmosphere,” Skids announced. “Make sure you’re holding on to something.”

The Decepticons were already secure, so Ratchet didn’t worry about them. He braced himself for the turbulence, pleasantly surprised by how well Skids handled the shuttle to minimize the effects. 

“Welcome to Thilia X56S,” Skids called out. “Home to rust, dust, and more rust. This is the final stop for this shuttle, so everyone not returning to our starting point, get your afts off now. Thank you for flying Air Skids.” The shuttle’s door opened, and Ratchet immediately heard the howl of the wind outside, though Skids had parked so the door was on the leeward side of the shuttle so no more than a few, thin skirls of dust streamed into the shuttle itself

“Gonna kill you the next time I see you, Autobot,” Blip growled.

“You and what army, slagsucker?”

“Just keep in mind that if you try to kill us again, we can and will defend ourselves up to and including killing you back.” Starscream’s stupid constitution couldn’t stop them from doing  _ that _ , or even from taking them prisoner again for new offenses as long as the circumstances were “not factionally motivated”. Getting shot at counted, though it wasn’t like Blip even had a gun at the moment. They had their transformations back, but not their weapons. “Your glorious leader got you a one time pardon. Don’t waste it.”

“Stop wasting time and kick the slagsucker out,” Sunstreaker growled, and Bob chittered menacingly. Ratchet knew he wasn’t doing anything but reacting to Sunstreaker’s apparent mood, but it seemed no one wanted to risk tangling with one of the vicious Swarm. 

Brawn laughed and effortlessly hauled Blip to the door, where he unlocked his cuffs. “Have a nice cycle.”

One by one, they freed the Decepticons and sent them down the ramp into the raging dust storm. Blueray and the rest of his group huddled together, whispering to each other.

“Hey! No conspiring!”

Blueray’s dog ears went down, then came back up defiantly. “Aren’t.”

“Talk outside, then,” Sunstreaker said as he shoved the last of the troublemakers out into the dust and the wind. “It’s your turn to go.”

Blueray’s ears twitched as held out his hands to let Brawn unlock the cuffs. “And if we don’t want to?”

“Come on, the weather’s not  _ that  _ bad out there,” Brawn said. “A quick sprint to civilization and you’ll be able to start looking for a ship to take you someplace nicer.”

“Yeah. Like this one,” Silverstorm said stubbornly. “The  _ Lost Light’s _ nicer.”

“You’re not  _ serious,”  _ Sunstreaker scowled, but Ratchet held up a hand to stop him from saying anything else.

“Are you saying you want to negotiate for passage on the  _ Lost Light?”  _ he asked, looking around the huddled group. “All of you?”

“Izzat what we’re calling it?” Ragefire asked.

“Yeah,” Blueray said. “That’s what we want.”

“We don’t have the authority to grant that,” Brawn pointed out, but Skids was grinning.

“So? We’ve got comms. Come on over and I’ll call the captain for you.”

Blueray, as the only one currently unrestrained, looked back at the others, then skittered  almost cautiously over to Skids, his ears twitching extra nervously at being separated from the group.

“Problem?” Rodimus’s face on the screen was slightly staticky from the dust storm.

“No problem,” Skids replied, fine-tuning the feed as best he could. “The prisoners have been offboarded, but we’ve got a group of transients wanting to book passage with us.”

“Strays?” Rodimus sounded pleased; part of the  _ Lost Light’s _ mission statement was to pick up strays. “Or are they ali—” He stopped when Blueray stepped close enough for the captain to see him. “Really, Blu-ray?”

Blueray’s ears flattened at the nickname. “You think we’d prefer going back to Starscream, or wandering around with  _ Blip?” _

Rodimus chuckled. “Some glowing compliments there. So, booking passage. Where did you want us to take you?”

Blueray looked back at the other Decepticons, all carefully hiding their hopeful expressions. “Dunno,” he said turning back to Rodimus. “Anywhere. Cyberutopia maybe.”

They wanted to join the quest? Not just book passage on the  _ Lost Light,  _ but to join her crew? 

“I can see you smiling back there, Ratch,” Rodimus said, even though Ratchet was nowhere near the camera. Everyone on the shuttle turned to look at him, and he quickly rearranged his features into a more serious expression. He was  _ not  _ smiling, no matter how happy this development made him. “Alright then! How many of you are coming back on board?”

“Seven of them,” Skids said smugly. “All of Ratchet’s little work group.”

“Yeah,” Blueray agreed.

Nope. Still not smiling.

“I’ll have Ultra Magnus get what we need and meet you in the hangar when you arrive then,” Rodimus grinned. “Till all are one!”

“I guess if we’re not kicking you out, we should probably get those cuffs off all of you.” Brawn shrugged when the captain hung up, and moved to do just that.

The Decepticons still huddled together once they were free, with some nervous twitching kibble, but they stood bravely. 

“Well.” Skids looked everyone over. “I suppose we should get back to the ship. Strap in.”

Everyone still split up on opposite sides of the shuttle — Autobots on the left, Decepticons on the right — but it warmed Ratchet’s spark to think of them as Cybertronians, returning together to a private, factionless ship. They were a small group, and it was only a small step, but it was a step in the right direction. A step towards peace.

It made Ratchet feel a little giddy. 

It also made the ride back a bit tense though, understandably. The ‘Cons didn’t talk about what they wanted to do on the  _ Lost Light, _ and it seemed like Brawn and Sunstreaker didn’t know what to do about them either. Skids kept a running commentary of how the trip was going, from the weather reports to the star patterns and other ship orbits once they were back above the atmosphere, just to fill the silence, and that helped a little. 

Brawn and Sunstreaker cleared off the shuttle as soon as they landed, Sunstreaker calling a curious Bob away from the returning Decepticons. Ratchet, however, lingered.

“Welcome aboard,” he said simply.

“Sure.”

Rodimus greeted them all with enthusiasm, while a somewhat put-upon looking Ultra Magnus towered behind him. Ratchet went over to stand next to him. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said.

Ultra Magnus grunted, somewhat disbelieving. 

“Of course not,” Rodimus laughed. “You wouldn’t have thrown a fit over them leaving if you were going to turn around and recruit them.”

“I did not throw a fit, or recruit anyone,” Ratchet muttered. Ultra Magnus just gave him a  _ look.  _ “Anyway it’s all worked out in the end, hasn’t it?” Except for one last prisoner, who they had agreed to hold a final meeting about after seeing the others off the ship. 

Ratchet couldn’t hear everything Rodimus was saying to their new crewmembers, but he was at his most charming and he could see them relaxing, opening up and talking. Most of them didn’t have any particular duties they did or didn’t want to do, but Blueray surprised him by asking if he could continue to work in the medbay. Ratchet had to bite back his automatic agreement, reminding himself that was First Aid’s decision. Though he couldn’t imagine First Aid refusing him; Blueray was proving to be a good tech. Already they — First Aid — were making plans to extend the medbay into one of the halls. The main medbay would be turned into a full trauma bay, while the empty medic berthrooms would become treatment rooms for the problems so many of the civilians were coming to them with. A tech would be a good addition to the team.

“And Magnus will help you with your quarters,” Rodimus wrapped up. “Unfortunately, we don’t have room for you to each have private rooms anymore, but we’ll get you set up.”

More of them had worked with Ultra Magnus before than the captain, so they looked at the second in command almost as one, ready to follow him. Ratchet was glad to see they had lost their shyness, thoroughly charmed by their captain.

“I’m not sorry to be rid of Blip and the rest,” Ratchet said to Rodimus as they watched them all file out, “but I’m glad they decided to stay.”

“Some of the crew will give them a hard time,” Rodimus said, surprisingly practical. “I’m not naive enough to think there won’t be rough patches.”

“They aren’t, either. But as long as everyone’s willing to work at it, they’ve got a chance.”

“Well if it doesn’t work, they can always leave,” Rodimus shrugged. “We’re not keeping them prisoner anymore.”

“Aren’t.” And Ratchet was  _ not  _ going to thank Starscream for that, even if it was nice to finally have the brig empty again. “Where’s Drift? I thought he’d be here with you.”

“Probably meditating,” Rodimus shrugged. “He’s not on duty and I haven’t seen him today.”

Fair enough. Maybe he’d been worried about making the new crewmembers nervous. “Are we meeting in your office, or one of the conference rooms?”

“Office, I think. Once Ultra Magnus is free.” 

“Alright. Call me when it’s time,” Ratchet said, and headed off to do a bit of his own version of meditating. He was not looking forward to this.

He didn’t want to disturb Drift’s meditation, and he didn’t want to go to Swerve’s right before a meeting about Overlord. He decided to head to the medbay and see if he could find any busywork, though that method of passing time was sort of chancy now that First Aid could officially kick him out if he caught him at it. Maybe he’d get lucky though, since he didn’t want to sit down and read through that medical basics book for book club just yet. He’d read some of it, and found it so engaging and personable that he needed to pace himself, or else he’d finish early and forget things he wanted to talk about at the next meeting.

With that in mind, he edged into the medical area. First Aid had declined to change quarters, even though Ratchet’s were more convenient for access to the medba— the  _ trauma _ bay. Understandably, since his quarters were way too small for three, even if Whirl didn’t always stay with the other two doctors and First Aid and Ambulon still pretended they weren’t sleeping in the same room.

Finding an assortment of tools waiting to be cleaned and sterilized, Ratchet took it upon himself to start washing. He was only at it for a few kliks before First Aid spotted him. “You’re not on duty.”

“No, I’m not,” Ratchet conceded. “But I felt like being useful.”

First Aid eyed the tools, obviously considering kicking Ratchet out (again), then shrugged. “You can help me get a set of nurse’s quarters cleaned out, if you want. I saw a couple of them were being used for storage when we were finding space for Dactyl and Ferritin.”

“Oh? Who else is moving in?”

“Blueray and Nightraider,” First Aid answered happily. 

“Nightraider wants to be a tech too?” Ratchet finished cleaning the implement in his hands, then set it aside without picking up another. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Nightraider might just want to be put in a room with one of the other Decepticons instead of being assigned a civilian roommate,” First Aid shrugged. “But he’s smart and a good worker so he should be a pretty good tech. Blueray wants to be a nurse, though. Hence nurse’s quarters.”

“Can he do that?”

“I don’t see why not.” First Aid led Ratchet down to the corridor that wasn’t being converted to treatment rooms. “Here, you start there,” he pointed to the first door, “and find the one with the least stuff in it. Skip over Dactyl and Ferritin’s room, there.” That one was easy to distinguish since it had their names on a plate next to it.

Hopefully there would be two rooms empty enough to combine all the storage easily into one. “Meet you in the middle then?” 

“Yeah. Is there a reason,” First Aid asked before heading to the other end of the hall, “that he wouldn’t make a good nurse? Something you saw while working with him?”

“No, nothing like that. I just…” Ratchet trailed off, realizing with some surprise that he’d just assumed Blueray wouldn’t, couldn’t be anything more than a medical technician or assistant, and that the basis of that assumption wasn’t really fair. Decepticon beastformer MTO soldier; none of those things said  _ medic  _ to Ratchet’s processor, but to decide for him that he didn’t deserve to try based on them… “There’s no reason at all he shouldn’t give it a go.”

Assured there wasn’t a problem, First Aid swung right back to enthusiasm for the idea. “It’ll be like having a beginning medical student!” He opened a door, then closed it again. “You remember what that was like?”

“Barely, and most of what I do remember isn’t all that encouraging,” Ratchet chuckled. “But I’ll do my best not to let that,” or any other bad habits of thought, “prejudice me.” Blueray was a lot older than any beginning student — forged or MTO — Ratchet had ever worked with in the past, but thinking of him in that way would help put any mistakes he made in perspective.

“We do need more staff, though,” First Aid pointed out, moving onto the next room. “Even students and assistants and techs. Right now there’s the three of us and two nurses overseeing the health of over four-hundred mechs. We can do it, by leaning on the med-drones a lot more than we have, but a lot of them aren’t soldiers who will be fine having their dents seen to by a drone, or even treat minor things themselves with their first aid kits… And more mechs on board means more potential injuries in an emergency. The trouble of taking on a couple of students — or more, if we pick up any more interested strays — will be worth it just to have the extra hands.”

“There is truth in that,” Ratchet agreed, though he couldn’t do anything but frown at the state of the room behind the door he’d just opened. The worst of the Temptoria salvage that hadn’t been straight up discarded or melted down was stacked on portable shelves nearly to the ceiling. “No way any extra hands will be moving in here.”

“Here though, if we can find a place for these crates.” First Aid stepped into a room. “There’s only a few. Then we’ll get a cleaning drone in here.”

“Sounds good,” Ratchet said, checking the next room on his side. “This one has space for more crates.”

They’d nearly gotten them all consolidated when the ping came from Rodimus.

“Drift looking for you?” First Aid guessed incorrectly when he saw Ratchet pause. He was doing that faceless grinning thing again. “Better not keep him waiting. Nope,” he said quickly before Ratchet could do more than start to open his mouth, “you’re not on duty so you don’t have to stay and finish this first. Go!”

Ratchet didn’t bother telling First Aid he wasn’t going to go enjoy himself. Besides, it wasn’t entirely untrue; he and Drift would have time together after the meeting. Their tempers might be running high, but they’d work them out like they had before.

Rodimus and Ultra Magnus were both waiting when Ratchet was admitted to the captain’s office. Given how close Drift’s quarters were, he should have been there as well, but he wasn’t. “Drift isn’t already here?”

“Funny, I was just going to ask if he wasn’t with you.” Rodimus frowned. “I pinged you both at the same time, and when he didn’t show up right away I figured you were off—”

“Busy together,” Ultra Magnus said, much more tactful than whatever the captain had been about to say.

“Well, we weren’t together, busy or otherwise.”

“I don’t want to make any decisions without him,” Rodimus said, uncharacteristically serious. “And… he’s not answering any of my pings.” He stood. “We should check that he’s okay. You have a guest code to his quarters, right Ratch?”

“You could use your captain’s override,” Ultra Magnus pointed out.

“No I can’t,” Rodimus answered, unrepentantly, opening a drawer. “I forgot it. I have the emergency override written down somewhere around here…”

“I can use my guest code,” Ratchet said before he could upend the entirety of the drawer’s contents onto the floor. He turned around and went back out the way he’d come, heading for Drift’s door. He tried sending a ping of his own, nervous tension beginning to build as it went unanswered.

He knocked first, just in case Drift had simply fallen into powersave and would spring awake at the noise, but no, still nothing. He suppressed the impulse to stand there knocking like a jilted lover — that’s not what was happening — and input his code. The door slid open.

Immediately, he could tell the room did not contain Drift. “Lights,” he called out to illuminate the room.

The snails — that damn picture of the two alien snails — was the first thing he saw, but it was almost the only thing left in the room.

“Rodimus!”

Ratchet didn’t wait for the captain to join him to step inside, cataloguing everything that was missing. The pad on top of the berth was gone, as was the meditation mat on the floor. The sword rack was nowhere to be seen either, and the footlocker that held all the important items that Drift didn’t carry with him always was gone too.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, then froze in the doorway. “What’s wro—ng…” Rodimus trailed off, stunned. “Where’d all his stuff go?”

“Who cares where his stuff went, where did  _ he  _ go?” Ratchet said, fighting down panic. He spotted a datapad left — it had to have been deliberately — over by the collage of images tacked to the wall, where the meditation mat should have been. He went over to pick it up.

His spark tried to leap out of his chest through his throat when he saw the new arrangement of the collage. Dai Atlas, Rodimus, and Ratchet had always been central figures, given how Drift’s thoughts had been dominated by worry over the Circle of Light’s fate for so long and how concerned he was with the ship, but this was a new arrangement. Now they, along with Ultra Magnus, had been fitted together by carefully cutting the edges of their pictures — Ratchet distantly noted the scraps on the floor — so they made a jigsaw puzzle. They couldn’t be separated, or it’d throw the whole composition off and the cracks would be obvious…

Drift had never bothered adding images of himself to the collage, except in symbolic ways, but the seamless jigsaw arrangement made his absence glaring. Ratchet turned on the datapad.

At first he wasn’t quite sure where he was looking at. A lot of math. Perceptor-level math.

_ Perceptor’s _ math, Ratchet revised the thought, flipping through the pages and seeing the notes typed out in the margins. That clarified what he was looking at: the astrophysics of several high-gravity stellar phenomena. Why was Drift researching…

_ Comparative Destruction Potential of High Gravity Objects — Conclusions, _ was written across the top of the second-to-last page, like Drift had been writing a report for Rung and the rest of the book club.

“Check the shuttle bay,” he said, comprehension dawning. “And check the basement.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I think you’ll find a few other things missing.” Ratchet looked up and saw Ultra Magnus standing behind Rodimus in the doorway. “He made the decision for us.”

“That would be illegal,” Ultra Magnus protested, almost on automatic.

“I think he knows that,” Rodimus said quietly. He stepped into the room and Ratchet stepped aside to give him access to the collage, and yellow fingers plucked an Autobot symbol off the edge. Ratchet hadn’t even noticed it, since the collage had always had several flimsy or foil prints of faction symbols, from both sides, incorporated, especially while he’d been contemplating changing his optics…

This wasn’t a flimsy or foil print.

_ “Primus damnit!” _ Rodimus cursed, closing his fist around Drift’s emblem.

“I will check the shuttles and the lower decks,” Ultra Magnus said stiffly, repeating Ratchet’s earlier words. “In case we are misconstruing this.”

“We aren’t,” Rodimus said, voice steady despite the tremors Ratchet could see running through his frame, “but check anyway.” Ultra Magnus nodded, then left. Rodimus waited until he was gone to ask, “What’s on the datapad?”

“An analysis of which nearby astronomical objects have the capacity to obliterate a Phase Sixer.”

“He wasn’t nice enough to say exactly which one he was headed to, was he?” Rodimus sounded hopeful. “Maybe we can intercept him. He can’t be  _ too _ far away…”

Ratchet read through the conclusions page, finding it talked almost completely in generalities. The conclusion was that any object with enough pressure to create degenerate matter — a term Ratchet wasn’t familiar with — or a singularity should utterly destroy anything nearby, but that there were unknowns about how singularities worked that made them iffy… Maybe he got a little more specific on the last page…

_ I love you, Ratchet. Don’t ever doubt that. _

The sound of creaking metal was what let Ratchet know he’d clenched his fingers to the point of warping the casing on the datapad. 

“Ratchet?”

A choked, poorly throttled engine whine was the only answer Ratchet could manage.

Rodimus eased the datapad out of Ratchet’s hand, looking at the screen — “Oh.” — as he set it aside. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around Ratchet, drawing him in. 

At first, Ratchet didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Then the trembling in the captain’s arms registered, and he reached out to hug him back. Drift and Rodimus were best friends. Roddy was hurting just as badly as he was; a fact which, unfairly enough, helped pull Ratchet out of his shock. Drift was gone, and he wasn’t intending to come back on his own, that much was clear. 

“We need to find out how much of a head start he has on us.”

“We’ll find him,” Rodimus said confidently. Ratchet would have believed him if he couldn’t still feel the captain’s trembling. “We found Ultra Magnus. This is basically the same right?”

“I hope not,” Ratchet said with a (slightly hysterical) laugh. “Finding Ultra Magnus meant going through Lockdown, Pharma, Star Saber, and Tyrest, and having to stop his evil plan to wipe out half our species.”

“Er, yeah.” The hug tightened. “But,” Rodimus’ voice swung back to familiar cockiness, “as long as we don’t have to deal with Megatron, Starscream, Shockwave and the end of the universe, I’ll call it a win. Come on, let’s call up the surveillance footage and check that Drift wasn’t possessed!”

.

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	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is how we’re handling the crossover cluster that is Dark Cybertron. You’re welcome (because otherwise the story would have ended with the previous chapter :p).


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this along with ch 29 this week because they're short (check that out if you missed it due to the dual update). Alas that we've reached the end at last! Thank you so much everyone for coming along on the journey <3

It was over. It was all finally over. Ratchet breathed a sigh more of exhaustion than relief as the doors of Iacon’s medical facility closed behind him. It had taken forever to get everything to a point where he felt comfortable walking away thanks to the sheer number of wounded from fighting off Shockwave’s blasted Ammonites, but at last the dominoes had stopped falling. Now all Ratchet wanted to do was fall onto a berth and recharge… but as tired as he was, there was one more thing he needed to take care of before he could rest.

Fortunately, it wasn’t difficult to track down Rodimus. Ratchet found him out by the  _ Lost Light,  _ supervising the preliminary survey to see what sort of repairs the ship needed. “Captain,” he called out across the landing pad, “do you have a klik?”

“For my favorite medic?” Rodimus turned with a smile. “Sure, if you promise to rescue me from requisition forms for that klik.”

“I can do that.” What Ratchet needed didn’t require any forms. “Where’s a good place to talk?”

“A private place or a Rung-just-might-stumble-across-us-and-help-us-with-our-problems place?”

“Private,” Ratchet chuckled. “Rung can’t help us with this problem.”

Rodimus looked around, looking for a place. He seemed nervous off the ship, even though being grounded and in need of repairs made being on the ship impractical. Ratchet couldn’t say he blamed him; Cybertron was… a strange and hostile place after the  _ Lost Light. _ “I think the  _ Leading Light’s _ still intact,” Rodimus finally decided. “It’s still parked in the  _ Lost Light’s _ hanger bay, too,” he added, becoming even happier with the idea.

“Then let’s use it.” Possibly for more than a conversation, even. “After you.”

Some of the crew were taking the chance for some shore leave and celebration while they could. A lot of others were sticking close to those still in the hospital. The rest — probably a third of the total roster — had decided to stick close to the  _ Lost Light. _ Whether it was NAILS piling hate on either faction or members of the Circle, or the usual scrap the factionmechs piled on each other and neutrals alike, Iacon felt generally unwelcoming. Most of the residents of the  _ Lost Light _ were just waiting for the chance to move back into their home and away from — as they saw it — the crazy that was Starscream’s Cybertron.

The outer bay doors were open, so Rodimus and Ratchet walked directly in and over to the  _ Leading Light.  _ It was dinged and scratched, but looked, to Ratchet’s untrained optic, spaceworthy.

“So,” Rodimus asked once they were safely ensconced in the smaller spacecraft. “What’s this about?”

“What else? Or rather,  _ who _ else.” Ratchet looked over at the flight controls. “I want to go after Drift.”

“We all do,” Rodimus soothed. He wasn’t really good at soothing, and he did it badly, but he tried. “As soon as the  _ Lost Light’s _ repaired, we’re headed right back to the Thilia system to pick up his trail. It might be a little cold by now, with the ions doing… whatever ions do to lose trails. But we have Perceptor, along with Nightbeat now. We’ll find him.”

“But how long will those repairs take, Rodimus? How much more time can we afford to lose? How much can we afford to  _ risk? _ Because the longer we stay here, the more likely it is something will find a way to delay or divert us. Again.” It just seemed to be their luck, and while it hadn’t mattered to Ratchet how much time they wasted looking for the Knights of Cybertron, and answering Optimus’ call and handling the mess with Shockwave hadn’t really been optional, he wasn’t willing to waste any more time looking for Drift.

“Ratchet…” Rodimus put a comforting hand on the medic’s arm. “We can’t take off without finishing repairs. You know that. And also, why am  _ I _ being the reasonable one? That is  _ literally _ what I wanted Magnus as my second for.”

“Okay, which is worse? You being reasonable, or me saying I have a ‘feeling’,” the air quotes were lopsided because of Roddy’s hand on his arm, “that someone needs to go now? That  _ I  _ need to go now, or at least as soon as physically possible?”

“What are you suggesting, Ratchet?”

“It won’t take as long to get a smaller vessel ready for takeoff, right?” Ratchet looked pointedly around them. “Like, for instance, this one?”

Rodimus stiffened and looked around, taking in the  _ Leading Light. _ “No,” he said slowly. “It won’t.” Ratchet saw Rodimus’ free hand clench slowly. “There’s nothing wrong with this ship…”  _ Clench, slow unclench. _ “Okay. Let’s go grab some energon from Swerve’s, just in case you lose power or something, then raid the medbay for supplies. Do you need anything from your quarters?”

“No.” The few personal items he wanted were already in his subspace, and everything else he could think of would be in the medbay, except for, “I could use a spare blaster, though.”

Unhesitantly, Rodimus pulled out his and handed it to Ratchet. “Let’s get you in the air. Space. Whatever.”

“Thank you.” It was a reckless, stupid thing to do, and reckless and stupid to go about it with so little planning or preparation, but it was the  _ right  _ thing to do. “I’ll bring him back as soon as I can.”

“When we manage to leave, we’ll head to the Thilia system and try to contact you,” Rodimus said seriously. “If we can’t reach you, we will follow you. So try to leave some clues, yeah?”

“I will.” He had no idea what kind of clues to leave, but he had a wonderfully long flight ahead of him to figure it out. “I don’t know why I thought I was going to have to argue with you about this.”

“Are you kidding? I want to go  _ with _ you, but I have to stay here and be  _ responsible. _ Ugh.” Rodimus clapped Ratchet on the back. “Let’s go not-steal some supplies and get you on your way so you can find Drift, yell at him for being an idiot trying to handle everything on his own, and bring him back home.”

That sounded perfect to Ratchet.

.

.

.

End.

**Author's Note:**

>  _You can pawn it off on kings and queens_  
>  _And those behind the curtain_  
>  _Say one can't make a difference_  
>  _In a world so full of hurting_  
>  _But I believe the remedy_  
>  _Starts right here with you and me_  
>            ~ Garth Brooks, [People Loving People](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZUYp0K9K2M)


End file.
